


Hriveressë

by EighthAgeArtificer



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle Scenes, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Slash, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Multi, basically I'm not saying anything but..., if you could find it in the silm you'll find it here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:31:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4441310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EighthAgeArtificer/pseuds/EighthAgeArtificer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sauron is defeated. The time of the Elves is over.<br/>In the winter following the War of the Rings conclusion the last act of Elves will play itself out. In the mind of Thranduil ghosts of the past will rise once more. Evil comes in many forms, and even the best intentions may lead to terrible ends. </p><p>The King of Greenwood the Great has a choice to make. To stay, or sail.</p><p>{otherwise known as Thranduils life story: a novel  }</p><p>// On Temporary Hiatus while I write myself out of a corner. A re-write is in progress so this version may be retired, so heads up on that \\</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Autumn

 

Dried leaves whispered in the trees with the last sighing breaths of summer. In short order autumn settled onto the forest, setting it ablaze with vibrant reds and maroons, oranges and golds. Under the pale sacred light of a full harvest moon the King of the Greenwood walked alone. As of late the moon for all it's sweet beckoning had turned his thoughts dark and gloomy. The time of the elves was over. Soon the choice would have to be made, whether to fade in power and diminish until only wildness and legend were left, or to vanish across uncharted seas to lands undying; thus remaining forever sundered from Middle Earth - no longer to have a hand in it's history.

For centuries King Thranduil had known of the choice, yet it had been delayed. Other thoughts of more pressing importance had often occupied his mind. He had seen war, desolation, great beauty and valour. Unspeakable pain and suffering and renewal above it all. There had been little thought given to the eventual end of his reign in the East. Yet; now the days grew short and ships to make that voyage few. The time to choose was at hand and the King found himself utterly unprepared for it. Worse yet, he knew not how his son might choose. Fading, or blissful Exile. Which fate would Legolas desire? Thranduil could not ask him, for he had not the courage.

So Thranduil was often alone under Tilions pure light to soothe his weary spirit. The million leaves of Greenwood the Great crackled and fell. The rising winds began to grow cool. The days became short and the long nights began, filled with stars and the shining flower of the heavens in it's glory. And old evils that had long been suppressed began to awaken in the darkness...

* * *

King Thranduil breathed deeply of the chill morning air and relished the warmth of his tea, cupping it gently in his hands with the occasional tapping of silver on porcelain breaking the low, continuous drone of that mornings briefing. His advisor took little heed to his masters antics. A slender Silvan with a little more grace than his parentage would suggest, Idhrenir possessed a gift of wit and patience that won him a coveted place at Thranduils side; a position he defended with unwavering - though not unquestioning - loyalty. In all Eryn Lasgalen there was none; save Legolas, whom Thranduil trusted more. Idhrenir continued on with a voice as unhurried as the mountains, his keen amber eyes calm. Of whether he realized his master was no longer listening he made no indication.

When Anar had risen to her full height Thranduil took his noon meal in the great hall amid the trusted members of his council. Yet; though he had been expecting to see his son, Legolas was not there.

"The chief warden on duty today tells me he left to go riding with a small company.” Idhrenir explained softly. “He should be back shortly."

Thranduil nodded, yet his head turned away. "Of course. It is a beautiful day - only, tell me as soon as he returns."

When the noon meal was finished the master of the Greenwood went for a walk under the towering stone boughs of his hall. The gleam of polished cavern stone was cunningly carved in likeness of a great forest filled with glimmering white trees that betrayed themselves only at the coolness of firm rock beneath the fingertips. Thranduil felt a deep love for these stone-hewn caverns that he suspected might be a little...un-elvish...at times. Yet he felt no remorse for this adoration and often would spend hours simply walking the marble bridges that spanned the thousand chasms above lightly tinkling underwater streams that echoed and laughed through the caves. It was only on those walks, as he strode under the lifted jewel-strewn boughs of the beeches that he would sing songs of an elder age that he alone of his kingdom recalled. An elven voice regal and sad would lift to echoed hauntingly in the deep halls and their numerous caverns and even those who could not comprehend the words of old could still feel the beauty of it's pull.

' _There a light like day immortal_

_and like night of stars unclouded, shone and gleamed._  
_A vault of topless trees it seemed,_  
_whose trunks of carven stone there stood_  
_like towers of an enchanted wood_  
_in magic fast for ever bound,_  
_bearing a roof whose branches wound_  
_in endless tracery of green_  
_lit by some leaf-imprisoned sheen_  
_of moon and sun, and wrought of gems,_  
_and each leaf hung on golden stems.'*_

Though his subjects did not know the name of the song they thought it as heart-rendingly beautiful, with an ancient youth and a solemn mirth in many ways very much like their King. Even when his voice no longer carried it, the ancient refrain continued to echo in his mind. A tale of Beren and Luthien - a doom of love everlasting. Long-forgotten, a memory of love that had been all too fleeting; yet he suspected quite unreturned, intruded upon his thoughts. And though he was quick to bury it memories seldom come alone. Soon his thoughts drifted to other hurts - and one that was most deep to him.

"My lord Thranduil."

Idhrenir spoke to him, dissolving the dark thoughts with a clear and calm voice. The young elf stood only a few feet behind, centered in the narrow causeway. Red-brown hair glistened in the lanterns that adorned the stone trees, shining like fine polished wood upon the wine hued velvet jacket he wore - a gift of old that he put to frequent use. "My Lord, the captain of the guard has returned. He will be at the gate shortly."

Thranduil heard no more, but hurried away with silken robes billowing like woven mist behind him along the stone walkway. Idhrenir stepped aside for his King with brows furrowed in silence to stare after his lord in his haste. Slowly, he followed along behind Thranduil toward the Great Causeway.

The kings behavior as of late had been abnormal. However; in the years Idhrenir had served him he had come to expect a certain amount of oddness. He had been faithful at his side for centuries...ever since Dagorlad. At the thought Idhrenir's amber eyes clouded ever so slightly, remembering the pain the orcs had dealt them.

"It surely must have been only through the grace of Iluvater that we survived." He whispered.

The battle had been cruel to their people, so very cruel. Yet the worst hurt Idhrenir himself had taken at Dagorlad itself, before the Black Gates. Idhrenir had been so young then and naive - a child among warriors though he too had undergone his own trial by fire. And for not a few personal reasons of his own the elf had trembled at the sight of the Dark Lords besieged stronghold. Even with the force of his thousands of brethren he thought he might as well be alone. Yet he desired to be faithful to his king, brave in battle, and honorable unto his death - though it may prove to be that very day. And a score of his own remained unsettled.

 

* * *

_Thranduil,_ _P_ _rince of Greenwood the Great_ _laid_ _a hand on_ _the young elves_ _shoulder. He did not say a word;_ _yet he felt the tension ease from the taut muscles of his chief aide_ _._ _They had been through much together already - this last challenge was one they both must see through._ _Idhrenir drew in a deep breath, ignoring the thick scent of smoke and ash rising from Orodruin - even as it towered over the black ramparts. H_ _is young master had fought before Angband itself and even faced the wrath of dragons. Yes, he had even lain eyes upon Ancálagón the Black - a beast so terrible he blotted out the sun with his wings and crushed three mountains in his death throes and spewed fire hotter than any flame Arda had ever seen save the fires of Orodruin itself. Orodruin that they now faced._

_With his Prince beside him Idhrenir knew he may yet live to see the Greenwood one more time. The_ _siege_ _had worn on longer than any expected. Soon the building storm would break._ _Oropher, the great King - who in many years past had known prudence now showed regrettable haste. When the opportunity arose he charged the enemy, sending his forces down into the battle before Gil-Galad had given the command._ _None knew the reason for it - had he mistaken the order or ignored it. Perhaps a trick of the enemy had shown him an illusion of what had not yet come to be. Whatever reason Oropher might name none know, for that charge was his last._

_'FATHER - MY KING!' Thranduil had called out_ _toward the shrinking form of his father - bright mithril armor and silvery hair trailing behind him; a single star_ _shining_ _out against the smoking void of the black lands. It was_ _to no avail,_ _Oropher was beyond the sound of his voice, the sight of his face_ _. And so with a great spur of his horse_ _Thranduil_ _hurdled down the slope after his father, and right into the fray._

_A greater moment of fear Idhrenir had not yet known up until that point, as he watched the flight of Orc arrows darken the sky above them. His horse flew with surer hooves even than the princes and Thranduil was cut off by the rearing stallion - and then black rain fell on them both. It was as if in a dream that Idhrenir carried his master, searching for a horse in the carnage of battle. He found one uninjured beast nearly mad with fear and spoke soothing words in it's ear until he could convince it to carry them both across the field. Everywhere battle was thick but the Silvan ignored it - for only one thought consumed him._

_It was as if an eternity had passed before the arms of Elrond Half-Elven reached up to take the stricken prince, and even as Idhrenir fell to earth at the end of his strength he pleaded for the wellbeing of his master. He was doubly indebted to the healer for sparing them both._

 

* * *

Striding quickly with boots making little noise on the stone walkways of the city Thranduil hurried to the gate, pulse racing. He intended to meet the sortie as soon as they arrived.

' _If I am quick I may meet them at the Esgalduin-'_

At this thought Thranduil hesitated just a moment, slowing gradually until he had come at last to full stop. The thought was wrong, though it had taken a moment to realize.

"Esgalduin? No...for that bridge was sunk long ago in Doriath...even as Beleriand did..."

Yet he could not remember the bridge now that connected the hall of caves to the forest of the Great Greenwood and soon he buried the thought and hurried on. Soon the wrought gates loomed above even his tall head, crowned with bursting boughs of shining emeralds shaped as leaves on the inside of the entryway. Through the gate he stepped into the fading warmth of the fall. For a time he stood in the great stone entry, ears attuned to the chirp of birds amid the blazing boughs of trees, feeding on what berries remained as they called to their mates in lovely song. Anar glinted through golden-red beeches that swayed in a soft but cool wind and bathed all the wood in an amber glow.

Echoing up the path came the rising pound of hooves thudding dully on the earth. Then around the corner with a victorious bound came the sortie back from patrol and Thranduil felt his heart leap. A light came into his eyes that had long been darkened.

At the head of the formation rode a tall proud elf on a dappled pale gray horse whose steel gray mane rippled with the speed of his approach - Arod. Upon the elf's back was a mighty bow and his hair streamed in the fair wind the color of palest gold - like the reflection of the sun on water with the lightest hints of mithril threads twining through it. Moonstone gray eyes were joyful yet wizened through battle and age. Thranduil forgot himself and his station, for he felt as if he were called back to the days of his youth and the great halls of Elu Thingol - third to awaken at Cuiviénen, King of the Sindar in his stronghold of Menegroth.

The proud elf dismounted and smiled. "Father, we've returned."

In that moment a strange and terrible feeling overcame Thranduil. For he felt the love he had toward his son, heir to his domain and felt joy at his safe return. And yet...he had for a moment thought another's voice would be greeting him, and in his heart Thranduil knew that he longed more for a voice from the past than what stood before him now. For just a heartbeat he had wished that Beleg - whom he had thought of first - had returned, not Legolas.

Thranduils smile was genuine yet pained and warmly he embraced his beloved child.

"Welcome Legolas...surely you must be tired. Rest, and then tell me about what you've seen on this journey. I trust all is well in the marches?"

"Never better! Not a sign of an enemy for as long as we rode - our lands are clear by all accounts of our scouts and companies. They'll put me out of work like this!" Legolas laughed at the end. Thranduil smiled, his spirit returning.

"Oh, and yet you do not worry about MY position. I _hear_ there's some young upstart trying to take it. Imagine that..." He spoke, one prominent brow rising.

"Not...for a good long while. I enjoy hunting Orcs in my free time, something that will be greatly hindered if I must listen to council all morning."

"And _now_ you know my sorrow!" Thranduil commented with a quick but amused smirk, leading them back through the wide door. "But council must be taken."

"But surely not until after tea? I have news for you from the forest - a messenger from Erebor."

"Is it urgent?" Thranduil asked with an unintended sharpness, his gray eyes worried and body tense.

Legolas shook his head gently. "Nothing to fear at least. It was good tidings and greetings and an _invitation_. I have returned with a letter."

"Hm." Thranduil nodded, shuffling his robes slowly.

Inwardly he thought. _'I know not if I_ _could endure even a short time alone with Legolas._ _I_ _love him dearly and the thought that_ _my_ _words might betray_ _me_ _weigh_ _too_ _heav_ _ily on my_ _heart._ _'_

Thranduil nodded and waved to Idhrenir who took the letter on his masters behalf, though his expression was one of wary concern at this turn of events.

"Is that so? Well, I return their greetings and I will return to this matter after other more pressing ones have been dealt with. I am sorry that I cannot join you for a quick meal, my son, I will meet you tomorrow however. The first meal should be convenient?"

Legolas nodded quickly though his head was lowered. "Of course. I look forward to it."

Thranduil halted a moment before he left, gently touching his sons chin with his hand. A smile graced his lips though his eyes still spoke of sorrow. Then the King turned away, speaking with Idhrenir who moved quickly to keep up. Legolas watched his father depart, his mind turning in an effort to explain this riddle he did not have the answer to.

 

* * *

Author Note:

*Excerpt from Lay of Leithian, direct quote.

 

 


	2. Memories of Menegroth

Deep caverns called him again.

High above the forest realm the moon shone in white splendor, covering the land with a pale blue sheen. Songs arose in the early evening as Isil peered above the dark outline of the eastern range and lit the land surrounding the lonely mountain. Deep beneath the earth their King listened and thought, far from the light of the moon that had come to haunt his thoughts and heavy his heart. For many long hours he paced the winding causeways and thought of many things that had already faded into forgotten history. Most of all, the memories from Doriath called him. In the hours of thought he returned frequently to that long lost land sunken beneath the sundering sea. There were only too few now in all Middle Earth whose memories of those days were clear - for Elrond half-elven, though he be old by the count of men, was still a child when Beleriand stood proud above the waves. The forests of Lothlorien were far away - too far for simple counsel.

Celeborn he felt most ready to speak with about his state of mind. When the new title for what men deemed 'Mirkwood' had been decided the Lord of Lothlorien had stayed in Thranduils halls and there they had walked the paths and reminisced about the kingdoms of old that they had known. He had known _of_ Celeborn for all those long years, yet, only lately had he come to _know_ him. Their duties had separated them; there was not much occasion for a kinsman of King Thingol and a member of the Kings Guard to meet on informal terms. As for Thranduils personality in those days he doubted the relationship would have been friendly even if they had. Time had stilled the worse of his temper - though there were still those to whom seemed quick to anger him.

Dwarves mostly.

Here the wheels of memory turned again, yet another matter on which he and Celeborn could speak long of - the treachery of Dwarves. Legolas had said something of an invitation from Erebor. It was not the cold and the distance of the span between their realms that worried Thranduil - rather the coldness of their hosts. The King had not survived to a respectable age by counting on Dwarven hospitality, generosity, and mercy...

Thoughts wound around each other for many long hours still and it was late in the night when Legolas appeared, striding quickly down one of the side halls. But he did not see his father, instead his eyes were fixed on the goal of his search. Soon he stood quietly beside Idhrenir. His gray eyes full of worry, Legolas was unusually subdued in his manner. In the torchlight by the walkway his clothes shimmered silver in a way that only magnified the graying of his hair - something that had taken a long time to come to.

"Idhrenir, you are trusted by my father and often know what ails him or what thoughts are on his mind. Tell me, has he given you any reason for his mood?"

The younger elf shook his head but raised a hand for silence. "No. Yet unless you wish to ask him directly lower your voice - for the king is just ahead."

"Ah." Legolas noted, speaking in a whisper. "No, I do not wish to speak of this to him yet...for I fear I may have something to do with this strange behavior. He was cold to me at the gate and hurried away, something he has never done before."

"My young Lord," Idhrenir began in a soft, but caring tone. "The king has no quarrel with you - that much you should know already. In all your years when has he ever remained _silent_ in anger?"

Legolas hushed a sudden laugh. "You are right! I would have noticed if he were wrathful with me. But then, what is the cause of this malaise? He is not himself - he acts as if he were bewitched or is afraid of becoming bewitched."

Idhrenir shifted closer to his masters son, and the two moved ever slightly from the area. Once they were a safe distance away from any potential eavesdropping the younger elf spoke.

"I am not one to pry into the Kings affairs...yet, I have heard of the names that he whispers while watching the moon, or while pacing the long halls.

"A name? And what is this name he whispers?"

Idhrenir hesitated a moment. "My grasp of the old tongue is enough that the names at first may sound fair, but feel foul even as they are spoken. I am loathe to repeat them, but to you I will. I have heard him utter 'Isilrís, Alquanár, and more often Silimanárë.'"

And Legolas set a scowl upon his face and replied, "Are you sure these are the names? For they sound strange - they are Quenyan. Moon-rift, Swanflame, and Crystalfire you have named. Yet my father has an ancient aversion to Quenya and does not speak it willingly."

Idhrenir gave a deep sigh. "I did not know of his aversion, and if your translation of these words be true then they sound fairer than I had suspected at first, yet there is another name that is uttered most often of them all. 'Vanyaqualmë.'"

At this a look of great fear came into the elven princes face. Idhrenir glanced rapidly from the King and back to the prince, as if the mere utterance of the word may draw Thranduils attention to them.

Legolas regained his composure. "This is the name used above all others?"

"Yes. Though I do not know what it means."

Legolas turned his gaze from the amber elf before him and regarded his father yet again, pacing lonely on the causeways of their city. One might think he was pining for something lost, for he seemed to wander without care as to where he might be journeying to. At length Legolas spoke to Idhrenir again.

"I know you are accustomed to look after my father, and for that I thank you. But I have much to think about myself this night, so I will take over the watch."

At this Idhrenir bowed low, understanding Legolas' wish. "Of course, good night."

"To you as well."

The advisor was slow in his departing and it could be seen in the hesitant and lingering steps that he truly wished to stay behind, but was not willing to contest the will of Legolas to do so. After a few moments he turned the corner, his maroon colored robes trailing for a second after.

Then Legolas turned his weary eyes toward his father, resuming the watch he had taken up.

"Beautiful Agony," He whispered, fear in the breathless sound. "Agony or death..."

Thranduil continued to pace his lonely path. His mind turned inward and for him time wound backwards on itself as he fell into a waking slumber filled with memories of the past.

_'Beleg - beloved mentor. If only I had known then your bane. Could I have done something to stay fates hand or to spare you? Perhaps if I had known then...'_

* * *

_It came as a gift-tribute to the King of Doriath on his throne in the great Beech-Hall. It was one of two in all the world that would ever be._

_Standing at the Kings right side, behind the carven throne Thranduil silently watched the approach of an elf-lord clad all in black silk and velvet studded with polished stones of jet and obsidian, hematite and black diamonds, trimmed with buckles and clasps of a dark steel the likes of which few had ever seen. Like a wraith he came into the midst of King Thingols beauty and light with a long silk-bound package in his hand, wrapped with golden threaded cords. Beleg at the foot of the Kings throne stepped forth in his role as Chief Marchwarden of Doriath and halted him, saying;_

_"None may approach the King with such craft in their hands."_

_And the dark elf replied. "So none may bear tribute to the King? Such an odd custom Menegroth holds."_

_"If you bear tribute then, bear it properly and remove your mantle." Beleg retorted. And the dark elf smirked._

_"Gladly I would. But it appears my hands are full, if you would be so kind."_

_Checking his own haste, Beleg gently and respectfully lifted the dark velvet hood from the elfs head and laid it back, revealing him to the hall. Beneath the hood lie eyes of dark steely gray, dark as cold iron but alive and quick as a blade. For a moment the mist gray of Belegs own eyes met at close distance with the cold iron and a dread feeling overtook him, as if doom had been wrought at this meeting. Then Beleg stepped back. Eöl had a sudden inspiration. Through his own darkness he had gained a keen eye for the light. The token he bore would not heed his call - though he had wrought it with the work of his own hands. But perhaps someone else could bring it to life - if not turned by it instead._

_"My Lord and King I come bearing glad tidings and the fruit of your grace, for this is what has been wrought in the lands you have allotted to me for my solitude."_

_And unwrapping the dark cloth he revealed a fine blade - as dark as night it reflected no light yet was ringed in a flame red glow at it's very edge._

_"Wrought from star-iron and sharp enough to cleave any steel of this world. Anglachel is it called, a token to you of my goodwill for the lands given for my dominion."_

_Eöl bowed to his knee, holding the sword aloft with head lowered toward the King in supplication, for it was Beleg's task to give all tribute directly into the King's hands. And as Beleg grasped the sword a voice issued in his mind and such was his surprise that he nearly dropped it onto the dark-elfs head. Yet Eöl smiled and Beleg had little choice but to bear the sword to the King. All this from his immobile perch Thranduil saw, for he was one of the Kings ceremonial guard and as such he was to attend the kings side, silent and still and clad in shining true-silver. He could do nothing but remain as a statue. Beleg gave the gift to King Thingol and the King beheld it in wonder, as if the sword were speaking to his soul. At length Thingol stated;_

_"A masterful blade and well wrought of rare iron." Then as if torn at heart he made to speak more but hesitated. In that opening Eöl struck._

_"Thank You my King. It is my hope that long will Anglachel protect your lands, for its only will is to lay low thine enemies o' King Thingol - the sole purpose for which it was made."_

_"A pity then it would be," Thingol spoke and a hint of wariness tinged his words, "if it lie in the treasury fast in it's sheath. Such a sword would not oblige that I suspect."_

_"I imagine not, your grace."_

_It was some time after this when great need came to the land. One fateful day Beleg came to the king to ask of him a favor. That favor was the possession of Anglachel. Melian, fair Maia and queen of Doriath advised against it - for she foresaw an ill fate for whoever owned such a dark blade. Yet Beleg was willing to risk the danger, for the sake of their peoples safety._

_"So be it." Thingol decreed. "Then none better to wield this blade than my truest sword. As gift and sign of my faith I entrust to you, Beleg Cúthalion, the ownership of the blade Anglachel - to use in the warding of Doriath as long as you are able."_

_And Beleg knelt and took the blade and was thus doomed._

 

* * *

 

' _Alas! Had I but known then the sorrow that blade would wreak I would have slain Eöl with it myself. And yet...'_

Thanduil raised a hand and trembling touched the wrought broach at his throat, a dark diamond set in branching arms of dark mithril. _'If I were to meet Eöl again even now I could not lay such an end upon him.'_

And the sun rose with a new day, yet his spirits did not rise with it. All the long night Legolas kept watch from a distance, lost in deep thoughts of his own.

 


	3. Lothlorien

Morning dawned clear and cold. Bundled in a blanket of winter furs Thranduil was greeted by the spiced aroma of a kindled fire on the hearth when he entered his private study. Idhrenir had been busy; there was wood to spare and a kettle hung above the crackling flames whistled in greeting as Thranduil crossed the threshold, filling the room with a clean crisp sound.

Soon Legolas stood at the door, waiting to be invited in - as per custom. Thranduil ignored him until his mischevious son grew bored and entered of his own free will - also as per custom. Today Thranduil had a bit of incentive on his side, for the morning meal had been delivered already with Legolas running behind schedule.

"I must say that this looks rather good, it isn't often we find cakes and honey for our tea. Especially this time of year. And with fresh berries no less." At this Thranduil turned his face toward the door, already having begun on his meal. "Quite a treat, is it not?"

Legolas entered, stomach winning out over stubborn humor. However; he found only _one_ helping and looked up with dismay. His father seemed unhurried and continued to dine at his leisure.

"Ada? Have you forgotten there are to be two places in the morning?"

"No." The king mused, helping himself to yet another of the berries in front of him.

"But then, where is _my_ first meal?"

Thranduil gave only a small smile as he continued to eat. "Well, supposing I was particularly hungry this morning and my son running late; what would you say may have come to pass?"

Legolas scowled, but was saved for as he began to speak Idhrenir appeared behind.

"So my timing was correct then, I had a feeling you would be delayed this morning." With a flourish Idhrenir laid a tray like to the kings in front of the prince who smiled up at his still stern faced father.

"And I thought you were telling me you had eaten my share."

Thranduil's eyes opened in mock scandal. "Did I _say_ that? I merely suggested a potential explanation."

Legolas laughed until he laid eyes upon the notice on the table and with a sly smirk he lifted it, giving it a wave in his fathers direction. "This is the letter from last night! You haven't opened it." He stated, handing it to Thranduil who lamented the interruption of his meal. He had been finished in any case. Tearing the seal open he rose, meandering toward the window as he read the message. Then his arm drooped with a heavy sigh.

"Such tidings so _early_ in the morning. I should have let YOU read this first. My worst fear has come to pass..."

Concerned, Legolas strode hastily to his father and took the letter. It was written in a rough, but familiar hand and he read it aloud.

* * *

_To the Prince of the Great Greenwood,_

_My apologies for being so late in my response, for the preparations have been most consuming to all in the hall. I'm very pleased to invite you - though keep it hush, the official invitation will be around in three weeks - to a great feast in Erebor thrown by King Thorin III. Your father and yourself, as well as any elves who care to appear are welcome to a winter event in our newly restored halls! Furthermore; though you did not hear this at all, especially not from me - invitations are going out to Dale as well! We hope to see the three kindreds of Dwarves, Elves and Men gathered together in merriment now that the world is rid of that great evil ( curse him ) - and I hope to show you what I have wrought of my gift from the fellowship for I have put all my skill into it! Again my dear friend you didn't hear this from me, keep it in your heart as close as treasure! To my personal friend, and dwarf-friend, Legolas Greenleaf of the Great Greenwood._

_Gimli, son of Gloin._

* * *

Legolas looked up at his father. "But this is joyful news!"

"That my son is a 'dwarf-friend'? I think not!" Though his words were harsh his face showed no anger or great distress but instead a subtle mirth. "Because now I will be duty bound to accompany him to the halls of Erebor so that he may meet in celebration." He scowled. "And I will be thoroughly without kinship - as no doubt you will run along with your new friends!"

At this the prince laughed, eyes shining. "Perhaps you'll enjoy the feast if you try!"

"I don't suppose you've seen _Dwarves_ feast. Speak with Elrond, I'm sure he can enlighten you."

"I will when we get there." Legolas replied.

For on that very day the large part of their host was to begin the journey south to Lothlorien, the first journey in many such ages. They were to stay in the halls of Galadriel and Celeborn, Lord and Lady of the golden wood and there the House of Elrond would meet them - and hopefully in attendance would be his sons Elledan and Elrohir whom were now good friends to Legolas. In attendance also would be Elronds daughter, Arwen - Queen of Gondor and also King Aragorn Elessar who of course would be joining his wife and reconnecting with his kin - for he was still kin to the house of Elrond and the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien by both marriage and blood and they would see the newly wed one last time ere the elves of Middle Earth left for Valinor.

Many arrangements had been made and the trip was merry, for though not all evil had been removed from the world a great part of it had been scattered and destroyed so that they traveled in peace. The company passed south on hidden paths with the King of the Greenwood at their head upon his great stag, clad in snow-hued jacket, tunic and breeches with boots of a light buff colored leather. At his side rode the crowned prince in fine raiment of white silk threaded with gold, a circlet of simply wrought silver upon his brow and Arod bore him nobly, clad in Grey of all hues to match his coat as befitted such a proud and valiant horse. The procession continued under both sun and moon, banners lifted high to drift in gentle breezes and song rising around them as they went. Thus at last they came with fond welcome into Lothlorien.

Much merriment did Thranduils people find there, and much knowledge as well - for few of them had strayed beyond their own borders and had little contact with elves outside their own kin. Yet in Lothlorien that week gathered elves from many noble houses. Sindar, Silvan, Teleri, Vanyar, and Noldor were all represented within the golden wood for that short but glorious time. And men joined them as Aragorn welcomed his family. Many glad tidings were uttered, yet sadness still there was. For it had been decided by the bearers of the rings that they must sail soon, and by the end of that month they would be forever across the sea, never to be seen in Middle Earth again.

Arwen and Aragorn said their farewells to Elrond. And he in turn said his farewells to the child of his adoption and the three of his blood, for Elledan and Elrohir chose to remain. Galadriel spoke for long nights to her granddaughter about her lore and what she knew, that it might serve her well after the eldest had gone across the sea. Here those attended were treated to a rare spectacle of golden splendor as Galadriel and Glorfindel held conference with one another - reciting tales of long ago to the eager ears of the Silvans who had not yet heard them. And Celeborn and Thranduil spoke under the lights of Lothlorien and gazed at the stars, forgetting old rivalries - for they alone would stay a while longer. There Thranduil admitted his fears for his son, and his own hesitating heart.

"You must do what you deem best." Was all the council Celeborn could give. For he could not see what lie ahead. Yet Galadriel at length drew Thranduil aside. He followed the Lady of Light through curving white arches and down the many gleaming steps to draw near to her mirror beneath the silent stars. The sounds of mirth faded away into the soft uttering of the forest night. Galadriel floated before him, an angelic specter in the moonlight. Her high brow shone with delicately wrought silver of a most marvelous and familiar make and beneath it her hair glimmered like pale gold.

At the well she grasped her pitcher and waited a time before she spoke.

"I have come to the end of my time in Middle Earth, as well you know. And the Ban of the Valar lain on all who first left the undying lands in the earliest of days has been lifted for me a second time. This time I choose to return to Valinor. I will no longer be able to shape the history of this Middle Earth - nor will I longer enjoy the privilege of my own realm. For though I am Galadriel, Lady of Lothlorien in this realm; in the land of Valinor I am one of Finarfins children bound to the noble house of Finwë and alone have I remained alive, for my brothers are all slain and now reside in the halls of Mandos, save Finrod who passed to my father.

“But." And now she gave a soft smile. "Perhaps I can be of service, one last time. As you well know this is my mirror, which shows many things. And the mirror often shows what it will. Yet, it is my mirror. Tonight, I will show you what I _myself_ have seen, so that the knowledge may not pass from this world with me."

Here she paused and grew stern. "Yet, it will cause you pain before the end comes to be and your loss may be great if all goes ill. Will you choose to look into the mirror, or step away?"

Thranduil approached the mirror. "I will choose to know, for there is no hope for the blind among danger."

Galadriel approached, her robes shining with the light of the stars and the moon. High above Eärendil gifted them with it's brightest hallowed light. Galadriel lightly rested her hands on the side of the silver basin.

"Look. And behold what I have seen."

Thranduil looked. Darkness and stars were above, yet their reflections could not be seen. The darkness gave way to gray mists. Then the mists cleared and Thranduil saw before him a vision from the depths that was faint, but grew ever clearer and brighter.

* * *

 _T_ _he edges of the pool wreathed in white flame and behind a bowman in the darkness._ _B_ _efore him flared a light more pure and bright than any other in the world - for it was a light that had long passed away. A wall of scales rose up, shining like mithril and moved toward that light. A_ _n_ _arrow black as night sped from a bow of silver._

 _Then, bowman and_ _l_ _ight vanished into darkness._

* * *

Thranduil knew the shape of the elf he saw, though his face was hidden. At length he spoke, the words failing him now and then.

"...so he is...alive? Or shall come back to life? It cannot be, for Mandos gives none leave to exit his halls save by Ilúvaters will!"

"Thranduil."

The calmness of Galadriels voice soothed him and he forsook panic to hearken to her council. Lightly she took his hands and her deep blue eyes pierced the depths of his spirit.

"The past is a dark maze, take care where it leads you. Do not become so consumed by the thought of what you seek, that you overlook it when it appears and do not recognize it for what it is."

He did not understand, but held the words of Galadriel in his heart, the last council she ever gave him. But it was not the last council he received that night, for Elrond sought him out. Though the festival was bright it had not lifted the Lords face for it was as stern as it ever had been. Sumptuous robes fluttered around him at his approach, for he was clad in his holiday finery. But his dark eyes were troubled as he spoke alone with Thranduil. In a hushed voice he said -

"Now I have a matter of utmost importance. But also of utmost secrecy, for if rumor of this should be heard then grief may befall those who remain in Middle Earth."

Here he paused and looked about him, as if fearful of prying ears and it was long before he spoke again. "Thranduil it is said that you were there in the battle of Five Armies, this much is true."

"It is, but it is many years past."

"Is it also true that a great stone was found and laid to rest with the fallen King of Erebor?" Elrond whispered, and the night seemed hushed and without sound, so that every noise echoed in their ears. After looking about him, gray eyes trying to pierce the darkness Thranduil replied; "It is. And where have you heard this?"

"One of Bilbo's tales, one of many. One known now by many." Elrond looked around again. "Thranduil, you know of where the stone is placed? Have you seen it with your eyes?"

Thranduil nodded, the memory of the Arkenstone seared into his mind - he had seen it's likeness before. Then cold fear came upon him and his eyes grew large and Elrond moved him to the side, a hand upon his shoulder so that he may not fall. For the elven-kings face had gone pale and his breath harsh. Thranduil whispered. "Yes. I know the stone of which you speak...I know it better than I had realized."

Elrond held his breath a moment, and then spoke. "Have you given thought to your fate? Of whether to fade or go across to Valinor? For time draws near and the boats now are few. And..." He added the last in a whisper. "You may not have time to fade, if these suspicious of mine be true. Or what I have seen."

"What have you seen?" Thranduil asked and his face was calm so that none may tell his concern from a distance. "What has your foresight revealed to you?"

"One the world has thought dead or lost. One who is well known to me and chief of my woe, yet dear to me as well. And one...who would not take tales of a shining stone lightly."

"And this is your vision alone? Perhaps you are mistaken."

Elrond nodded solemnly and moved away. Yet he halted a moment longer and spoke. "So too did I think, yet I saw familiar face upon the road - though I do not think that he knew." Now Elrond looked upon Thranduil with concern. "In the time to come, be careful. Do not strive against that which you cannot hope to contend. For death for one or both lies there; and either would cause me great pain to hear. Some things in this world cannot be swayed, nor renounced, nor destroyed."

Speaking this he and Thranduil parted ways. Long into the darkness Thranduil stared, his eyes tracing the distant moon for solace in vain. From that day he was much tormented by his secret knowledge; a torment that could only grow with time.

 

 


	4. Under the Moon

The chill of winter settled over the land of the Great Greenwood. All was silent under the watch of a pale full moon - the first after the first snow of the year - even as Tilion guided it through the deep of the heavens with the steadfastness of his hands. Long had it been since the great forest had known such peace in winter, for now there were no fell beasts to disturb the hush of the star strewn nights nor the glistening white days approaching the winter festival. Yet despite the peace of the evening and the elder children's legendary love of Telperion's flower the woods were bereft of elves - save one.

Long into the night the great king of the Greenwood stood watch over the white forests with his gaze fixed upon the moon. Ever since it had crested the misty mountains to the east and began it's heavenly ascent he had been unable to pull his eyes from it's pure white light. A great diamond mirror in a field of crystal strewn velvet, sailing with the silence of a white owls flight in its slow voyage across the sky. It felt to Thranduil as if the moon stared at him in return, it's gaze peering towards Arda where he waited - it's will striving with his and locking him in an unwavering embrace. It was the silver flower, radiance of the eldest tree, first light of the sky.

Often had it snared him in such a way, compelling him to turn his face upwards in adoration of it as it watched over the night sky. Often he had hidden himself beneath the surface of the earth in dark caverns innumerable to avoid it's painful beauty. That night, he had been caught unawares.

And in the shadow of the door waited the young prince, who was almost as spellbound as his father, though the moon was not his focus. Instead his vision was filled with the sight of a great Elven King, ageless, yet ancient, staring into the night sky heedless of the frost - enraptured by the light of a full moon. Thranduil was tall, even in the reckoning of Elves, and strong with a presence that cowed any but the most forceful of will. In the light his hair gleamed like polished mithril at his back, robes of fine blue-violet velvet drawn around him, cut of cloth carefully woven by his subjects. In the light they shifted from one hue to another and waves of color rippled with every slight movement. These were pulled in great deep folds crested with white, reminding one of lonely hills after the snow. Upon his head was a crown of silver that rose in tall smooth peaks like tapered candles, and each tip was lit with the unwavering golden light of magic flame that would not burn those who touched it - for it was winter and the red leaves and berries of autumn had faded away in the season of ice and snow. The kings face was upturned to the moon, and his son stared silently at his fathers back.

Legolas had left him in this very spot several hours ago and had only noticed him a second time in passing, having assumed that the king had retired to his quarters already. Yet there was no sign of movement in that moment or for many to come and the lord of the Greenwood gazed longingly and in silence.

His mind was turning backwards as the light filled all of his vision and his gray eyes came only to see the sheen of the silver flower - it's lustrous white petals outspread before him. He had seen such splendor before, yet magnified a thousandfold...yes...it had been centuries since last he had gazed on the wonder of all elven creation...their beautiful bane for which even brothers might murder one another...

It had been in the candlelit halls of Thingols realm of Doriath that he had first lain eyes on the wonder of the ancient world in all it's radiant splendor. In those earliest days of his youth he had been taken under the wing of Beleg who had aspirations that one day he may find a position for the young elf in his own command. The days spend in training had been a rapturous joy to Thranduil - yet his joy was doubled by his fathers approval. Life in Doriath could have been far harsher, for they were not completely out of reach of the Dark Lords stronghold - the prison fortress of Angband. Many feared they were too close and that even a slight spread of his fell power may spread the Wasting Sickness into the heart of Doriaths capital Menegroth.

Ah! Menegroth! The city of elves beneath the stone, hewn out of deep caverns and fortified beyond measure. Beautiful dwelling of the most beautiful of creations, and the most beautiful of all Iluvaters children to ever live. This Thranduil would attest to above all else.

For there while he was still just a young elf, not even a half century old, he had seen glory. In those days when Luthien had first lived he had known the beauty of her form and song, and later when she lived again he had seen her radiance restored in full - and more. For as he stood beside his father he among precious few watched the adorning of Luthien - Luthien Tinuviel of legend crowned with Nauglamir, set with the Silmaril stolen from Bauglirs crown itself.

The light of their realm was unrivaled in all the world and all who lived in the grace of the beautiful maiden, under the watchfulness of her silvery eyes, watching the ripple of her midnight tresses or the sweep of her snow-white arms, her throat shining with the light of Telperion itself.

Joy, beyond measure was his in those days...yet it could not last. Already it had been sullied with the bitter memory of his mentors death. Beleg, betrayed by one who loved him as a brother - though he did not know it until it was too late. Túrin had never forgotten such pain as the one his own hand wrought that night when he slew his dearest friend who had saved him - mistaking him for an enemy in the darkness. His lament; Laer cú Beleg, was mostly forgotten by the world...though not yet by Thranduil who remembered every note and line as if it were engraved upon his heart and so it would forever remain, for the black bow would sing no more...

Yes...his days had begun to darken with the death of his teacher Beleg...and they grew darker still. It was in those early days that his hatred of many things had been first kindled. Of strange elves - not of his kind. Of dwarves and their lust for treasure...of terrible evil which no name could fully describe...the black iron gates of Angband...the moon casting fire...

"Ada!"

Thranduil turned to see his son beside him, pale gray eyes shining with worry and fear - as if some sight had struck fear into his heart. The cold winter wind blew, Thranduil turned aside and his right hand moved to his face, remaining there until flesh had begun to cover the bone again. When the silence became unbearable Legolas spoke again, his voice betraying his deep concern - for he had never before seen the grievous wound his father hid so clearly and it had shaken him.

"Father...are you alright?"

Legolas' voice wavered with the uncertainty of a small child who has suddenly realized that the adults around them are not invincible - that they can be hurt. For a moment longer there was silence. Then at last Thranduil turned back towards his son, a kind light in his shimmering eyes, a soft smile on his beautiful face. With a gentle hand he touched Legolas on the cheek, brushing away a strand of gold.

"Laegolas. Le hannon."

A momentary hush fell between them before Legolas whispered softly, "Losto mae." in return.

At this the king departed, walking up the wide step and back through his study which had long grown dark and cold the hearth fire no longer casting even the dim illumination of red coals. Thranduil passed through into the hall and then toward his chambers even as Legolas stood on the terrace, troubled at heart. At last he reached his quarters, weary and concerned. He lay his crown down on its stand and himself on the velvet couch, for he intended to pass into the waking meditation that gave rest to the elves. But as he lay upon the couch a sudden darkness overcame his sight and the world faded. Thus Thranduil passed into a deep and perilous sleep from which the coming of morning could not stir him.

 


	5. Nan Elmoth

Thranduil craved adventure. Wide open spaces beneath the stars, the rushing of seas he had never seen. To test himself in strength and valor under the banner of his people against the dark forces that crept in the shadows.

Yet; the young elf was tucked away behind the Girdle of Melian, whom none could pass unbidden. It was a very boring, but safe, life. Thranduil was still young then, so young that he was not permitted to join the ranks of the Marchwardens - for he had not the endurance or strength of arm. This made him sullen, for he greatly admired the Chief of the Marchwardens, Beleg. Beleg was kind yet strong and though he was graced with the pale silver hair and eyes of his kindred it seemed to Thranduil as if he shone of some inner light. Often he was found at the Kings right hand, when he was not tracking through Doriaths' forests.

Thranduils father, Oropher, was made captain of the Kings home-guard and spent many nights securing the halls from within. Yet even this far safer position was denied to Thranduil on account of his few years - numbering only 25 winters and thus not even halfway to his maturity in the reckoning of elves.

Often Thranduil would slip forth from Menegroth; taking secret ways to journey in the woods. His reason was twofold - that he may gain wisdom of the forest and thus be a far more likely candidate than any other elf when the time came to add to the ranks of the Marchwardens, and to help calm his restless heart so that he may better present himself during the time spent inside the halls of Menegroth. Rarely did orcs enter even a step beyond the girdle so he was perfectly safe.

But on one such occasion he felt particularly bold - having been incensed by an indignity at court. He cared not for the intrigues and guile that often attended high places. Nor did he much account the comings and goings of the high born though it often be on the lips of many. He was not yet subtle in his manner but rather direct, sometimes painfully so. As it was he managed with his bluntness to incur the wrath of one of the courtiers, who instead of addressing it directly as Thranduil himself would have preferred went to the young elfs father with word of his sons 'excursions' beyond the palace gates. Oropher, now angered not just by his sons forays but by the knowledge that others had known what he himself had been blind to called his son forth.

"You have seen nothing beyond these sheltered woods, and so do not have any idea what you seek! And this you hide even from your father but make it known to others only makes me look like a fool! Is this your love for your father?"

Thranduil countered. "You say I have no idea of the world beyond, but of course I do not! If I seek to join the Marchwardens then how can I do so without even knowing my own homeland? I was not allowed by your permission to set even a foot outside of Menegroth without company so how _can_ I know of the world?"

Oropher set his hands into fists, quaking as he spoke: "You were not then and are not now allowed outside of Menegroth. Perhaps when age comes it will bring you wisdom that you sorely lack. Then you will not take the will of your father so lightly."

Oropher would not hear the pleas of a captive youth. He turned sharply, armor clacking harshly amid the polished stone floors as he returned to his duties. At that moment Thranduil, instead of returning to his studies, resolved to leave the city of Menegroth and at last pass beyond the Girdle of Melian. As he was leaving, pretending to simply be returning to his quarters he happened to pass by the queen. Graceful and beautiful as light upon water, the Maia who had fallen in love and taken on flesh for the sake of her beloved. Teacher of the song of nightingales and weaver of powerful magic. Thranduil had shown deference and respect for the great lady as she passed, and hardly ever had she noticed him. Yet that day her eyes turned toward him, as if knowing what he meant to achieve. Yet she did not betray him and simply smiled a soft smile and made no move to hinder him.

To the southeast he went, having heard little word of danger from that quarter. For though he wanted to see the world he wasn't quite ready to leave it just yet, and he had no arms with which to defend himself. Long toil and travel it took to reach the edge of the girdled lands, and the sun loomed high in the sky above him, filtered by countless fresh green leaves that glinted in the noon light. At last at the edge he paused, uncertain. But memory of his fathers scornful words urged him on and he stepped through the hedge that he had remained within all his life.

Instantly the world bore down on him. Sounds were warped and unfamiliar. The warmth of the sun was torn away and left light without heat. All the world was cold and lonely. The reek of mortality hung in the air so heavy it began to make him dizzy. For he had always been sheltered within the Girdle of Melian, and thus had never felt the dark threads of evil that in his age had begun to strangle the world. All his life he had been embraced by the warmth of the ladies arms and now she had drawn them away and his very heart turned cold. Immediately he turned to go back, having done what he set out to do. Yet he could not find the way. All paths twisted and turned before him and though he had only taken a few steps beyond the barrier he was now hopelessly lost in ever darkening woods, alone and without protection.

It was nearing nightfall when he heard some noise that was not the hush of leaves or the chirp of birds. IT was a rustle in the near bushes. He thought it was an orc, come on him unawares. Yet even as he turned a blade was at his throat and holding it was a tall figure dressed in black with a cowl drawn over.

"And what business have you to trespass on my land?" A voice asked in the tongue of the realm, and Thranduil knew it was one of his kindred - a Sindarin who spoke to him.

"I am lost." He confessed, his throat dry from wandering. "I cannot find my way."

"Of course not." The elf replied with a hint of derision. "I laid these enchantments myself and no mere child could ever hope to undo them." He spoke calmly but the sword he did not lower. "Yet I asked a question of you - what are you doing in my land?"

Thranduil, young and still naive, thought nothing of telling this stranger everything about himself. But this was fortunate and much to his credit. Thranduil told the elf a long tale and when he had finished he waited in silence and fear.

"A waif...of sorts. Well, waif, I am in no mood to travel further tonight. So I offer you two choices; you may either stay with me tonight on the condition you make yourself useful. Or, you may sleep under any tree you please till I decide to fetch you. Which shall it be?"

Now, Thranduil himself was proud and did not wish to suffer any indignity. He stood tall and sure, bright eyes unyielding. "If those be the only options left to me I shall stay here in the comfort of the wild rather than be at the mercy of a strangers whim."

He had expected sharp words, for he judged the elf to be of quick temper. Yet he received laughter.

"Well met waif! But I will not be held accountable for what ill fate may befall you in these woods. Come, I doubt there is much work I could put you to in any case."

So Thranduil followed the strange elf to a small home of stone set into a rocky hillside deep in the forest. Only the homes front face could be seen for the rest was concealed beneath the mound. The young runaway noted that it was of odd make, lain out in strong sharp lines rather like a dwarves respite than the home of an elf! Though Thranduil had no way of knowing it, the abode _had_ been built by dwarves as a gift to one they greatly favored. The two elves issued in through the single door and beheld a home of geometric shapes that were hard, yet bore a strange flow and harmony with one another that spoke of an elvish spirit. The interior was surprisingly open and did not feel stuffy or cramped. In an inviting if recessed hearth a fire burned behind a diamond shaped grate of black iron and bright braziers of brass were lit on every wall.

Now Thranduil could see his host. A tall elf, slightly stooped. Yet he was noble if grim and his hair was a dark silver that shone like metal though his eyes were palest misty gray. Strange marks the Avari wore upon his bare arms and shoulders - black lines with harsh angles etched into his flesh - the like of which Thranduil had never seen in Menegroth. Eöl's garb forsook the normal Sindarin hues in their pale blue and silver tones and instead clad himself in midnight shades of red, green, blue trimmed in deepest black, all beautifully embroidered in the same style as the home. Also he wore fine black armor that did not shine nor reflect any light but instead seemed to absorb all light that fell upon it and swallow it into nothingness.

The elf faced him. "My name is Eöl, a servant of the King Thingol who has allowed me the stewardship of Nan Elmoth provided I guard it from evil."

Eöl looked upon the elf he had taken into his home - the first in a long time. For he was not a gracious sort who loved company; but instead was prone to entrapping those who trespassed until weariness or wild beasts in his realm caught them. But the boys story, of being trapped in someone else's walls with no will of his own had echoed something within him.

"You look no more than a scant 18 years under the moon. Why have you left the bounds of Melians Girdle? You were safe there."

"Too safe." Thranduil explained. "Like a caged bird! And I care not for the intrigue of the court - who is courting who, what others do behind closed doors or rumor from strange lands. They do not interest me in the slightest! Yet that is all I am subjected to!"

Eöl in this time had taken a seat and was now listening intently. "So you wished to escape it then?"

"I want freedom." Thranduil spoke. "The rules of Menegroth are many and the code of propriety strict. One must take care not to offend the 'wrong' person. An elf spends so much time pleasing others at the expense of increasing their own misery. Thus a sort of dishonesty begins."

All this Eöl heard quietly and at length he gave a small smile. "All this I know well - and why Nan Elmoth is my home. Rest now in blissful solitude, tomorrow you must go back."

He showed Thranduil to a spare room he kept for his few dwarven visitors, a simple space with a sturdy bed of pine and a few sparing candles whose light reflected from brick walls. After Thranduil had washed himself Eöl set for them a meal of wild game and carefully harvested roots from his own garden which Thranduil had never eaten before. "Dwarven food I'm afraid, though I am rather fond of it. It is no high fare of the Kings court. Hard to grow Elvish food on a lonely homestead. Elves do _everything_ in such great numbers."

Thranduil laughed and ate happily. For a while they sat outside and watched the large full moon in silence. Then they rested.

The next morning Thranduil was well rested in body, though his mind was in turmoil. For he knew that his absence would be noted and that much effort had likely gone into searching for him. Oropher would be furious. He was quiet all the long return trip to Menegroth. At the gates the guards hailed him loudly in both surprise and joy - for many of them were fond of their captains son. Soon even Mablung and Beleg came to meet him and tell of how they had searched long for him and that even the king himself had worried over his fate.

"He himself turned out the guard to find you." Beleg explained. "Thranduil, where have you been all this night - surely you did not sleep in the trees beyond our borders; you were most certainly not in our lands."

"No. I was sheltered for the night." Thranduil confessed, and Eöl came forth - he had gone unnoticed until that moment. Beleg's glance was chilled, but he spoke no ill word.

"You watched over him for the night, and for that you are owed many thanks."

"I doubt I will receive them from his father." Eel replied. "But the boy was no trouble. Yet, I have not made the long journey merely to return him to you, I would like an audience with his highness if he is able - the boys father is likely with the King even now in any case."

Beleg agreed and led the two through the many caverned halls into the deep of Menegroth. Down they went into caverns deep and lined with moss that gave a faint glow in the darkness, their steps illuminated with the flickering of luminescent wings that fluttered about them with silent grace. The tight narrow halls opened into a wide cavern crossed with winding causeways of limestone that wove over and above one another and were wrapped and twined around columns of rock-hewn beech that towered to a high ceiling set with emeralds and gilded in gold. Thingols sat upon a tree adorned throne, a tall an noble faced elf with hair the color of starlight and clad in raiment of silk as shimmering as mist. Whether it was some magic woven into his robes or that which exuded from the elf himself none could truly say - for Elu Thingol was eldest among those that had remained in Middle Earth. and at his side was Oropher. Oropher, upon seeing his son, spoke aloud: "Where have you been? We searched all the forest and could not find you!"

Eöl answered, his low voice echoing in the open air as he waved with a flourish of tattooed hands, "With me. And with me he returns." Eöl bowed his head, and dark gray hair trailed from it's high ties over one shoulder. Though even this modest gesture echoed his insolence.

"Surely and gladly so." Mablung spoke, hoping to calm Oropher. But Oropher was still furious with his son and the heat of that fury was now also turned to Eöl.

"Thranduil! Thankless child! Wandering off so that I think you lost or dead! What spell have you fallen under to act this way? I know not what compelled you to such an act but I forbid you to repeat it!" Then upon Eöl he looked with loathing, and the thought that his son had fallen into such company grieved him greatly yet his words remained polite. "Thank you for the return of my errant son. But why are you now in the Kings hall? In this matter you have no further say."

Oropher made to move from the throne but was halted by Thingols hand. "Stay your anger for a moment longer Oropher, and allow them the first word. It may yet calm you."

Before the throne Thranduil gave an account of what had come to pass, his sight focused solely on the King, for he did not dare to meet his fathers eyes. When he had finished Eöl testified to the truth of his tale.

"And that is partly a matter for which I have requested an audience."

Thingol tilted his head slightly. "Is it? Then do you want recompense for one night of lodging?"

"Indeed. I have opened up my home which is closed to all strangers out of consideration for a fellow subject of the king. There is some due owed."

A wry smile crossed the elven-kings lips then and his pale gray eyes gleamed. Thingol replied. "Of due owed I know much, for you still have not payed the due for the dominion of Nan Elmoth, Eöl. A due which you agreed to before your departure. Should the due for your hospitality then come from the due you owe for your freedom?"

"No. For the due owed to me will be paid in full by the boy himself."

Now Oropher _did_ rise in fury and made to move toward Eöl. "Nothing will be paid to the dark elf of Nan Elmoth, much less anything from my son nor I!"

"Oropher;" The King called him. "Stay your wrath, for I will not command it a third time."

Then Oropher fell into a bitter obedience, yet now Thingols face was calm and unreadable to all.

"What would you ask for, Eöl?"

The dark elf bowed, though it seemed much against his will. "I would ask in recompense that the boy aid me in my craft. Your due shall come from this joint work of ours, for I cannot complete it without assistance and the secrets of it I would rather not have known to the dwarves - for they will speak of it even if sworn not to; such is their love of the craft."

"This can be done,” Thingol spoke. “but only if Thranduil is willing to the bargain, for I will not hand him over as if to thralldom. Yet hearing all that has been said today I think it most unwise to restrain him to the walls of the city - for he knows their passages too well to be contained by them any longer. Do you not agree, Oropher?"

To this Oropher gave his grudging assent, though his jaw was clenched and his body stiff. He had seen the growing unhappiness, yet had dismissed it as the restlessness of a child. "I will allow it if he chooses."

"Then what is your choice Thranduil, son of Oropher?"  
Thranduil spoke gladly, "I will go with Eöl and help in this task as I am indebted to him for my safekeeping."

"So be it."

Thranduil knew his father disapproved, but this was the only way he could think of to avoid the labyrinth of life at court that he had grown to hate so very much. The opportunity to see and hear new things, news from beyond the borders was too much to pass up.

It seemed a blur as they returned to Nan Elmoth. Yet it was not entirely as Eöl had spoken, as the dark elf confessed when they entered his home again.

"I will not allow you to even touch my greatest work with those unskilled hands! I will teach you the lesser arts and those we will sell so that I may have what I need most - time - to work in peace."

"So that is why you have requested me?" Thranduil wondered.

Eöl had taken a step towards his shop when Thranduil spoke, and there was a long silence between them until the elf whispered over his shoulder: "Yes, and no. If you disapprove then curse the nature of elves, that we feel loneliness."

Yet after that Eöl spoke of loneliness no more and they grew to understanding of one another in the long days and nights spent working side by side. Days came and went beyond counting as Thranduil slowly learned the craft of the smith. Under the dappled twilight of Nan Elmoth many small trinkets and weapons he made in those days under the watchful eye of his teacher.

 

 

 


	6. Esgalduin

 

_The years turned in his mind. Lost in the deep reaches of his thought Thranduil knew somehow that he was ensnared in_ _a_ _tangled web of memories. But his knowledge_ _availed_ _him little,_ _for_ _as the memories of Nan Elmoth faded away a new memory brightened in it's place, flickering_ _crimson_ _, 'till it filled all his mind with the flames of the past._

* * *

Word came to King Dior's men that the gates were broken and the enemy was upon them. It was with firm commands to his faithful that he trod at last the Kings path by himself, for he meant to go alone to his own destruction. In his wisdom he knew there could be no turning back the sons of Fëanor, nor any hope of defeating them. Yet, by facing them alone he may grant his people - and his beloved family - precious time to leave the doomed city before death befell them.

Yet as he walked the narrow stone causeway to his throne room Dior heard the soft, echoing rhythm of a footfall behind him. Thranduil, son of Oropher and captain of his royal guard followed.

Halting, the King lowered his head, dark shadowy hair covering his eyes. 

"Turn aside now; Thranduil, while time yet remains to secure an escape."

"I will go where my King goes,” Thranduil replied. “- as I did for his father before him. I will not abandon my post in the last hour while I may yet hold it."

Looking upon him Dior knew there could be no dissuading him and so continued on his destined path. He had already ordered the fleeing to care for the wellbeing of the Queen and his children, there was nothing more to do but meet the enemy. King Dior's midnight robes billowed with speed, sapphires glinting coldly in winter torchlight. Birds that for centuries had sung on carven boughs were silent, their nests deserted. No more would they return to fill the halls with Melians song. It was a long walk, yet the two elves came at last to the Kings hall. There Dior ascended to his throne and waited. Now and then his hand would caress the wood that had been well worn by his grandfather, tracing the inlaid silver with an expression of bittersweet fondness. Dior would give his answer in person to the invaders at his door. For his answer was the same as his grandfather Thingol before him to the dwarves of Nagrod who had killed him in anger to hear it - none should have the jewel; the token of Beren's great love for Luthien, fairest of all creation; his fathers bride-gift to his mother. None, least of all the blood-stained kin-slayers would King Dior of Doriath suffer to hold the precious stone that his father and grandfather before him had lain down their lives for - save for his own children, when they grew old enough to bear it's weight.

His gaze shifted to his left, and he could not help but watch his captain of the home-guard beside him.

Thranduil bore the gleaming helm and shield and sword of his rank proudly. The elfs long pale golden hair trailed from beneath polished mithril. Dior was reminded a moment of Mablung, who had died defending the treasury when the accursed dwarves of Nogrod had slain Thingol - one of the eldest of all elves and his beloved grandfather. His grandmother Melian had departed in grief afterwards, and the jewel once recovered by Beleg, who now also had passed, had gone to his mother and father on the Island of the Dead that Live until the days of their mortal lives were spent.

In all his years in the dark days of Arda Dior came well to know loss and suffering and pain. He had hoped once to restore Doriath to high glory, yet felt deep in his heart that it was now the end.

For a long time there was silence as the two elves stood at the high seat, but then the approaching clamor of battle grew near until all the hall rung and clashed with the ringing of swords and armor. A loud banging began on the barred beech doors. Even so, the elven-king Dior held his place, face set with stony resolve and beside him Thranduil stood with a face as severe as one carven out of stone and though his eyes were sharp with anger his hand shook. Thranduil moved slightly before the throne so that the enemy would have to match him before challenging his king. But never before had he faced elves, nor had he ever in his life drawn a sword against another of his kind. 

The doors rocked and creaked on their brazen hinges. Centuries old wood carefully preserved and tended groaned beneath the beating and then shattered, splintering with hollow echoes on the stones. They were thrown open and a small but formidable host gazed into Thingols Hall of stone beneath the earth.

Two elven princes of the Ñoldor entered, both tall and dark of hair - two of the sons of Fëanor. Caranthir snarled in the direction of the throne, garnet eyes glaring from a flushed face. He paced to the left; gaze unwavering as he made room for his brothers behind him and in the torchlight Thranduil could scarcely tear his eyes from the crimson stains on his heavy woolen tan tunic and breeches, the tall boots crusted with mud and gore. Stepping with more grace than his brother another elf entered, dressed with all the finery of a noble in silk and gold. If legend be told of their fathers bearing then certainly it was echoed in this son of Fëanor, for his eyes shimmering as moonstone were quick and sharp and belied a cunning mind. His movements were graceful and filled with purpose - even at a distance the surety of his stance could be seen. Curufin took to the right, approaching even as his brother did with slow, sure steps upon the twisted wreckage of the beech doors, dark hair trailing over his shoulders and glinting with a starry hint in the dim light. As he glanced right at his brother a glint of silver earring could be seen on the left ear. At the sight of the double sided approach the King of Doriath; Dior Eluchil, son Beren and Luthien rose. Yet, it was not the end, for one more came through the door. Little so far had stirred the King Dior's anger so much as the sight of a tall elf with eyes the color of stormy seas. Golden hair with the faintest hint of silvery sheen was corded into long ropes of knotted hair adorned with feathers, beads and metal clasps and instead of the courtly raiment befitting a prince he wore a rough costume of wool and fur. Dior recognized well Celegorm who's ultimatum he had rebuffed to this bitter end; whose mistreatment of his fair mother was well known through Beleriand.

Outside the door a host waited, for the brothers had wanted to meet with the King of Doriath alone. Silence weighed heavy in the room. The keenest ears could detect the howling of winter winds above grow quiet as if in anticipation of the doom that would shortly unfold. It was Dior who first spoke; from his throne he asked aloud:

"Is it not enough that you have slain your own kin once before? Or has the lust driven you to madness beyond all reason? Perhaps you love nothing more than destruction and death - and if that is your desire than you would make more fitting princes of dark lands than of elves."

At these words Celegorm started, but was stilled by Curufin to his left. Yet Caranthir advanced with sword dripping crimson in the torchlight of the kings hall.

"You blame us for this end, yet it was within your power to avoid it. We are driven no more mad by the Silmaril than you are, o' King of the dead! For you only had to return what was stolen from us to avert this doom. If elvish blood has been spilled in your halls it is for the sake of your greed alone!"

"Arrogant!" King Dior snapped, and now the rage of the full elf-lord could be seen - for he was mighty in his wrath as a child of Maiar, and Elves and Men. His wrath shook the walls of Menegroth and the three brothers at once took steps back.

Dior threw back his mantle and drew his own weapon. "Arrogant and unfit to be called princes of Elves - Orcs alone are fit for your dominion! Step forth you lords of murder and I will send you Mandos, may he do with you as he will!"

At this no words of his brothers could restrain him; for Caranthir stepped forth with eyes blazing red as coals in his anger to seek battle with the King. Yet Thranduil halted him with drawn sword that flashed so quickly that the blade passed before Caranthir could see it. He fell back with an echoing cry of pain even as his blood dropped to the stones beneath him, a deep gash painting his chest red. Twice more Caranthir advanced and twice more was driven back. Before he could make another attempt his brothers reached out and seized him, drawing him from the fight against his will - for his fading strength had weakened him.

At the sight of his brothers blood Celegorm was stirred to high rage. He swept past Caranthir and Curufin to clash with Thranduil. As the blade came from above Thranduil was able to deflect it, twisting it in an arcing circle away from him. But before he could counterattack Celegorm lunged with a feral ferocity, and the force of his charge was such that Thranduil could only withstand two strikes, and on the third was thrown aside, his back striking hard on the carven steps of the throne so that for a moment he was breathless. Then Dior sprang forward and clashed with the Feanorian. His spirit emboldened by his brothers charge, Caranthir engaged as well and in a flurry of flashing steel the Elf-King Dior held his ground against two of the sons of Fëanor in their wrath. But Caranthir's wounds had already been great and with a last great thrust Diors sword ran through him and he fell and moved no more. His brothers death spurred Curufin into his own wrath and he joined the fight in his slain kin's stead on the narrow stone bridge. Three swords flashed in the torchlit darkness, three forms twisted and parried on the causeway - dodging and turning as they might, always a hairs breadth from the edge of the path and a long drop to the river below. Thranduil longed to jump to Diors aid but the way was too narrow for him to fight alongside his King, and Dior would give no ground.

Curufins own end came as he made a lunge forward, throwing his weight into Dior. But Dior recovered and raised his sword between them and from that strike to his face Curufin was blinded as Dior swung upwards before bringing the dread sword down. Thus Curufin fell beside his brother. Now Celegorm alone was left - in all the tales told it was a sad battle. For Celegorm the Fair, with pale golden hair shining in the light of the raging fires traded blows with Dior the Beautiful. The battle moved with near impossible speed and all the savagery of Celegorms assault served to highlight the majesty of King Dior. Both elves of great power they strove for mastery and more than once they nearly tumbled together into the Esgalduin. It was at last though that Diors endurance ran thin and he was grappled. With a mighty wrench Celegorm cast him back toward the throne. Dior struck the stone with a gasp, his sword falling away from him. Celegorm at that moment threw himself fully into his charge; yet in a flash Dior had recovered his blade and with a last mighty stroke mirrored by both the two scions of elven-kings fell in battle.

All this Thranduil saw from the step of the throne, for he could not tear his eyes away from the sight. His King now lay dead, his enemies slain around him. A hoarse, terrible curse issued from the shattered door and echoed in the expansive chamber, filing it with the twisted guttural voice of the dark lands. At such impiety Thranduil was roused to the present once more. The din of battle had risen again and drawn near. Yet the approaching roar did not strike fear into Thranduils heart so much as the sight before him now.

Maedhros, son of Fëanor, stood on the split remains of the beech doors. Upon his right shoulder was a short cape with nothing beneath, yet in his left hand gleamed a dark blade of hard iron, sharp and unadorned. Raiments of undyed heavy wool bore not a single cut Doriath blades, yet were so stained with elvish blood that the bottom hem of his long-coat and the length of his left sleeve had turned to a wet black. Beneath tightly shorn copper locks fierce misty eyes were fixed upon the still bodies of three of his six brothers. Still pools of arterial red covered the marble stone and spilled over into the river below. Dior lay silent in death, no longer able to tell of what he knew - of his brothers fate or that of the treasure they had died seeking.

Maedhros gave a short breath. He moved nothing save his eyes, which snapped to focus on the young Captain sitting injured before the throne. Thranduil felt his spirit wither under a feral gaze as forceful as the eyes of a wyrm - holding him still in terror even at his deaths silent approach. Every fiber in his being felt stretched tight as a spring and he shook with maddening fear - yet even though his mind cried out for him to run his legs would not obey.

A scream shrieked into the silence, a piercing echo even above the rivers roar. Thranduil leapt like a deer, scrambling fast around the throne, long strides carrying him far down the corridor rushing steps quickly behind.

Young as he was, he had heard the rumour and tales of the coming of the Ñoldor to middle earth. The whispers of Artanis in the night to Celeborn and Melian of the grave sins that the sons of Fëanor had committed in pursuit of the Silmarils, yet never did Thranduil imagine he would become bound with the curse of the Ñoldor, nor that he would be forced to flee in terror from elven-kindred. He ran through secret ways and dark halls issuing forth flames of war and the terrible noise of battle, cries of triumph, the screams of the dying - always with footsteps close behind. As he moved from the secret ways into the main hall a force struck him and he stumbled to the stone floor; crying out at the pain in his injured back. Thranduil rose and whirled with blade drawn only to find another also unsheathed - but the face behind it was familiar - Artanis; noble daughter of Finarfin and princess of the High Elves. She was no longer clad in shining white raiment, but in the garb of a warrior - for though Thranduil knew it not she was also called Nerwen or 'man-maiden' by her mother and had passed through the danger of the Helcaraxë to set foot in Middle Earth.

"Ai! Thranduil! You were last seen with the King, where is he now?"

"Slain!" Thranduil replied and grabbed her by the hand to pull her forward, yet she was immovable and towered over him like a monolith. "He is _dead_ \- and with him three of the sons of Fëanor. A fourth is behind me even now!"

The footsteps of doom hastened. From the corridor came a vision of red fury as Maedhros issued forth from dark passages. Artanis pulled Thranduil behind her, bright sword raised at her kin. Eyes cold and resolute Maedhros regarded Artanis only a moment: he had seen her face last in Valinor, the only elf-maid to speak during his fathers pleas.

"Daughter of Finarfin, against you I would raise no sword, daughter of my fathers brother.” His voice was deep but even, without fear or even anger. “However; Dior's captain behind you has secret knowledge of the treasure of the Ñoldor. Hand him over to me."

Cold fear crept into Thranduils heart, for he had never spoken of his feelings towards the white lady to her, nor any other. But he could not well endanger one he loved for the sake of his own life. So as Artanis began to speak words of defiance she was stilled by Thranduil with a gentle hand on her arm. Though Thranduil could hardly stand upon his own feet he took up his sword.

"I cannot in good faith risk the life of one so fair the in the defense of my own. Yet I also cannot betray my King, and especially not to the kin of his slayers. I will not flee, yet I will not speak either."

With all his strength he gave her a great push behind him, sending her forward down the hall. Recovering herself, she prepared to throw herself back into the fray - even against her own cousin for the sake of a great friend.

Thranduil blocked her way and cried out; "Your heart flees before you-" for he knew of her great fondness for her newly betrothed Celeborn. "Quickly! Before he is lost to you forever!"

Artanis regarded him a moment, face twisted with pain and sorrow, but then she turned and fled away in pursuit - weeping as she did so, for caught between love of Thranduil as one of her slain brothers, or the love of her betrothed she could not help but choose the later for it was far more powerful to her.

Maedhros made no motion, and when Artanis was out of sight Thranduil returned his pursuers challenge, though his own body shook with exhaustion.

"You may not pass, for while I draw breath I will not allow you to pursue her."

The son of Fëanor gave a short snort. "My business is with _you_. I will ask but one question of you and your answer will determine mine. Where has the silmaril that Dior claimed gone to? In what place has it been hidden? Speak! For you are the captain of the royal guard and all such things are known to you."

Silence stretched between them, anger palpable even over the distance between them. Thranduil moved then backward onto the wide overpass where the bridge crossed Esgalduin for the last time, and at each retreating step his foe advanced.

"I will never tell one so stained with the blood of his kindred.” Thranduil growled through gritted teeth as he reached the apex of the curving arch. “Get ye from this city, warg! Go spread your desolation elsewhere for you shall not pass me!"

There they clashed on the high bridge above the underground river of the city. Thranduils sword was quick and keen; yet his opponent was of a calibre he had yet faced in the world. When he tried to thrust his sword forward it was deflected and spun around so that he almost lost his balance, when he struck horizontal to the ground in a sweeping arc the towering elf merely stepped back just far enough to avoid it. Yet Maedhros' reach was far greater and each stroke left Thranduil staggering off balance. He was cut and bloodied while Maedhros suffered not even a scratch. He gasped for air, limbs heavy. It was hard to focus, to keep track of the quickening attacks and strengthening blows. 

_He's wearing me down..._

The realization crashed upon him as Thranduil realized he was being methodically undermined with each passing minute - but as he attempted to open space Maedhros attacked with sudden violence, crashing his full weight into the smaller elf. Thranduil cursed as his sword was thrown, fighting to keep his balance from the impact. 

There was a flurry of movement and another curse came to his lips. The Ñoldor was too close -

Sharply the air left his lungs, his stance wavered. Pale ice-blue eyes stared numbly at the roughworn fabric before him even as his hand clasped at the cold dampness of Maedhros' sleeve. Pain shrieked through his right side and the faintest sound of small drops echoed loud in his ears. The warmth of his body faded even as Maedhros stepped back and at the feeling of the iron blade drawing free from his flesh he finally cried out in pain, collapsing to his knees on the hard stone, left arm cradling his wound even as blood trailed through trembling fingers. 

“I am...sorry.” A voice whispered from above. Slowly Thranduil raised his head, a snarl on his lips even as he watched his foe lift the sword high.

“No.. _you're not!_ ” Thranduil spat, and with a great slam of his left fist into the stone he uttered an echoing spell handed down through generations of wardens, the words of unmaking wrought into the bridge at its very creation. Thranduil couldn't deny the flutter of triumph he felt at the wide-eyed shock in the Noldo's eyes when the heavy stones cracked and split asunder. Maedhros' resounding curses were drowned in the sound of grinding rock that gave way to a sudden silence. Thranduil felt himself cast into a void, his body weightless even as the ceiling fell away above him and the roar of the river grew. Falling into that darkness he let a faint bitter smile cross his face. 

 

* * *

The rivers of Doriath were swift and cold, yet it was not the doom of Maedhros to die in them. And after a while they came out into the light of day and the son of Fëanor moved to the shore, streaming bloody water from his clothes. For a time he sat on the shore in contemplation, but then a glint on the water caught his eye and he went forth to investigate. He passed to the south a little way and found on a large boulder the young elf who had sundered the bridge. A growl tore from his throat. Wading into the river he grabbed the elf by the throat, nails biting into the flesh. Without waking the elf gave a short breathless grunt. 

"My vengeance for this will fall upon _you_ , for you are chiefly to blame for this woe!"

But as Maedhros stood above the elf, poised to strangle him he paused. For below him the Sindarin with eyes closed, and deeply wounded was helpless. In the light of day Maedhros could see the years upon him and knew that he was in the early spring of his ageless life; many centuries awaited him upon Middle-Earth. Reason overcame his anger then. Lowering his head in resignation he slowly removed his hand from Thranduils neck, weary gray eyes tracing over the bruised flesh even as the elf began to breathe fitfully again. Maedhros turned away, wading back through the water to the near shore and with one last baleful glare he wandered away to reunite with the remainder of his kin. Thranduil he left lying where he had found him. 

The sun was low, weak behind heavy gray clouds when Thranduil awoke. The softest of white dust had begun to fall when slowly he pulled himself through the darkening woods toward the only safe shelter he knew. The sun was setting and without the protection of it's people the hills would teem with orcs and other fell beasts looking to despoil the once proud lands - foes who would slay him without mercy. A long time he wandered until he came to Nan Elmoth and there to the house of Eöl long abandoned. After searching for the open way Thranduil entered the estate, collapsed upon the familiar wooden floors and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

 

 


	7. The Northward Road

Doriath is destroyed, Beleg is dead. The King has been slain, his daughter has fled. The Princes' are lost, the Queen is as well. The daughter has fled, so rumor must tell to the harbor at the sea.

And amidst it all Oropher his father, nor Artanis, nor Celeborn, nor any others of the royal host has Thranduil seen for months now.

His time in the abandoned house of Eöl has been quiet.

Long ago the master of the house went away - to what fate Thranduil had yet to learn. With their master gone the servants had left as well so the house; though built of stone in the manner of dwarves, nonetheless needed repairs to be livable. In this Thranduil busied himself and in doing so he was able to dull the pain of his loss for a while. Thranduil deep in his weary heart believed himself the last lonely survivor of Menegroth. Yet for the dread memory of that cold winter night and the fear of both Feanorians and the Great Enemy of the North Thranduil did not dare go beyond the borders of Nan Elmoth to seek out his Sindarin Kin. Most especially not with the increase in fell beasts, wargs, orcs, Feanorians and worse that flooded into Doriath unhindered since the leaving of Melian and the fall of Dior.

The memory still burned in his mind to stoke a wrathful fire in his heart against the Sons of Fëanor, chiefest of his foes. Many times he recalled that King Thingol had been wise to set himself apart from them, though it had seemed without reason at first. But thought makes the heart heavy, so Thranduil turned to work instead. He did not hide in the shadows or dark of night, but lit the forges by day and hunted at dawn and dusk, and so for a long while had peace and time to himself. In the following years the wayward elf began to feel content with this lack of responsibility - replaced by a simple if watchful life of good work and better rest. Soon Thranduil recalled what scant knowledge Eöl had imparted to him in his youth and before long the fires of Eöls forge were once more bringing forth riches in silver and gold and jewels. Fine tools Thranduil began with - trading them for what he could not procure himself in the small beleaguered towns at the fallen realms fraying edges. Swords, knives and any manner of sharpened edged crafts were high in demand and in this Thranduil became comfortably proficient. Though he was far from being notable by elven standards the Edain seemed more than pleased with his wares and often gave him generous sums for the least of his works.

What he could not use he sold rather cheaply, and thus he hardly wanted for anything.

However; Thranduil entertained no relations with dwarves. When smoke began to rise once more from Eöl's forge the masters of the mountains had assumed the 'Dark Elf' had returned after a long voyage and the proud naugrim came expecting welcome. But shortly they were informed that Thranduil was now lord of Nan Elmoth and that if they valued their lives that visit would be the last they ever made to those lands. He raised their ire and they raised their axes, but in the end the company was bested and hurriedly the sorry band returned home with dire tidings to their kin. After that they troubled Thranduil no more.

Not even Thranduil could say how long he remained in that narrow land, an island of deep shadowed green amidst the plunder of Bauglirs monsters. Yet soon word filtered to him that many of the survivors had passed into a hidden city in the mountains; where it lie no one knew with any certainty. Long had there been stories of a strange place named 'Ondolinde' but long did Thranduil tarry in Nan Elmoth even after learning this, for he loved deeply the tall dark trees of the forest and the strange pale flowers that bloomed in the dark - blossoming with heady fragrances in the perpetual twilight beneath the towering boles. The quiet sounds of ancient woods pleased his ears as no royal chorus of harps and bells could. But it grew on his heart that perhaps someone - _anyone_ , had survived other than himself. The desire to be with kin ever gnawed at his spirit until all his happiness was spent, for deep in his heart he knew that only by forsaking the familiar forest for lands uncharted could he know if he were truly alone among his people. Thranduil prepared to leave.

In the deep storerooms he found the sable armor of Eöl. The elf had last worn it long ago when he warded Nan Elmoth during the forging of Anglachel and Anguirel in the dark elf's stead. It was an armor without peer - light but strong and of the deepest lightless black which only reflected a baleful violet glow of it's own from the dull metal. To this Thranduil added a bright mithril sword etched with runes of power and grace in Eöl's harsh lines. In his searching of the forge Thranduil chanced upon a rare wonder found tucked lovingly into a box of beech-wood - a fine circlet of galvorn set with diamonds and sapphires in a delicate manner.

For a moment he held it in it's hands, it's weight a trifle for it's strength. Musing then that Eöl must have forgotten it Thranduil stowed it with the rest of his cache, tucking it neatly in a worn canvas pack. Lastly the young elf removed from his worn clothes a brooch, some small and dainty piece of work in dark mithril twined cunningly around a large golden diamond. Some little thing that Thranduil had crafted long ago under Eöl's mentorship but found himself fond of. He used it to close a long black wool cloak around his lithe frame, armor and all. When Thranduil was made ready he closed up the house as securely as he could - for it may be long before he could return again. Yet, as he did so he caught a reflection in the mirror and started so badly that his sword was half-drawn before he recognized himself. With a laugh Thranduil murmured,

“What a dangerous thing to encounter your own reflection!”

Now he took time to gaze over his form. It had been some time since Menegroth and he had come to his full maturity now, reached for elven kin between 50 and 100 years. Hair fell in heavy locks like palest gold over wide shoulders, though a great deal was hidden under the dark cloak. Pale moonstone eyes tinged with sorrow and old hurts yet unhealed stared back from the polished silver. For the first time in his young life he felt old indeed - though he was still lacking in years among the elves.

With a heavy heart Thranduil left Nan Elmoth, unsure of when, or if he would ever return.

From that day forth the exile wandered bleakly through many years of searching and rumor. What time Thranduil could spare from hunting the trail of Doriaths elves he passed working as a bodyguard and courier to earn money for lodging at far flung inns and taverns. Thranduil saw now for the first time how the men he traded with lived. Often they gathered in large numbers and often the elf worked alongside them; though it galled him to be reduced to such meniality. For in those days men lived in rude homes, rough and bare and devoid of the pleasures known to the elves - for their lives were short and hard and filled with sorrow.

Rumors at times were worth their weight in gold and it was in the quiet tavern whispers in dark districts of darker cities that he was first able to gain bearing on where Gondolin may yet lie. No honest denizens would speak of such a precious location - yet thieves and plunderers were ever eager to find the elven paradise; or at least a sure enough path to sell to the dark lord of Angband. Taking their chatter to heart Thranduil at last bid the filth and squalor of mankind behind and turned toward the north, heading deeper with each strep into greater peril.

Since the fall of King Dior that lands in the heart of Beleriand had grown wild and filled with beasts growling their black speech. Spiders had begun to come down from the barren north in search of sweeter meats and coming hard on the heels of orcs and wargs soon the beings of terror spread their reign far and wide. Yet in spite of them Thranduil pressed on, for the hope of his father overrode his fear of the enemy.

It was only by some strange and benevolent fate that he stumbled upon the lone path that led to the hidden city. For many days into the north Thranduil had traveled, forsaking safer paths for the cover of the deep forest. Yet at every side he had been beset by the enemy and it was with increasing despair that Thranduil wandered in the lengthening dark - as he could scarcely go more than a half-days travel before some roving back of orcs searching for spoils forced him to cower like a terrified rabbit amid the brush. Camps marked by raucous laughter and sickly green-yellow flames dotted all the hills and valleys of the north now and with each passing company Thranduil could do little but bare his teeth in angry silence until they were gone from sight and sound.

“That such fell monsters now parade as conquering lords in these lands.” Thranduil mused bitterly as he watched the retreating backs of a infernal horde, clad in black cloth dirtied by their trek. Bones and carven horn chattered amid the throng only to be drowned in the bellows of their wearers as they marched in cadence to songs of horror and bloodlust.

By the third week of a long and agonizing trek Thranduil was nearing his wits end. The hills and valleys all looked the same - rugged peaks that towered mockingly above him. The air from the north had taken a frigid turn and he shivered in the night under distant stars that had long since lost their warmth.

Staring into the darkness as he ate what precious little provisions remained, a sombre thought embedded itself deep in Thranduils mind. The food was gone and for days he'd been without water. And though his kind could not die from such things the lack had made him clumsy - reckless.

Earlier that morning, just as the sun had risen Thranduil had thought he heard the pouring of water down upon stones. With his canteen being long since drained he was parched and desperate; the nagging thirst overcoming his senses for just a few moments. Thranduil had made for the sound at once and had nearly broken out of the cover of the rocky crags to ply it's source in a narrow valley. But some strange noise had caught him up short and despite the aching need of his empty stomach and the dryness of his mouth Thranduil had waited.

Just as he was resolved to search for water the noise stopped. From within a narrow cleft in the stones crawled some misshapen spawn of Morgoth himself. Sickly green-gray skin prickled in the early morning light and with a scowl toward the sun the lanky creature waddled ungracefully over the sharp rocks of the valley, some strange mechanism clasped in it's clawed hands.

Another joined it from further up and the two met, their scratching voices augmented by the echoing rocks and the faint wailing of distant gales upon the ranges granite teeth. Then, picking a new place on the dried riverbed they hid themselves. Once more the rhythmic notes of water trickling with all it's sweet melody filled the narrow cannon and despite himself Thranduil felt a deep pull to hearken.

Yet gathering his last reserves of strength the elf turned away and scrabbled unhappily back up the sharp ravine.

Staring into the dark Thranduil knew he couldn't afford another such mistake yet he doubted he would have the foresight to see through such a trap for much longer. Settling in with his back against a stone, a cloak covering him from the fell wind and sight, Thranduil fell into a waking sleep devoid of rest or dreams.

The next morning the elf shifted his pack on his shoulders and began the climb anew. After most of the day had passed Thranduil came suddenly to a dried river bed filled with large smooth stones that had seen the wear of deep, cool waters. Hidden in the rocks he waited a time, yet no sound came and no orcs appeared with their water-sounding apparatus. Searching that deep and lonesome gully convinced Thranduil that no water would be found here. However; both desperation and hope swirled within him until at last his feet turned up the gully path, following it where it led up into the mountains. Perhaps the source was still intact - it was the only good lead he had. But the lead ran short as the bed took a turn into a cruel looking patch of twisted thorns that barred all further progress. His hope and strength spent, Thranduil let loose an anguished cry of despair - his wordless anguish echoing forth from the pitiless stone, echoing from the spear-like ramparts of the encircling mountains that loomed without mercy high above.

 Echoing shrieks answered him, twisted and cruel cries amplified by the jagged stone to herald Thranduils imminent danger.

For all his careful steps his passage into the realm near the encircling mountains had not gone unnoticed. The orcs had no reason to attack a healthy elf at the risk of losing a squad or two when they could wait a few days and overpower a weakened elf with little trouble. Now as their mocking laughter closed in Thranduil came to that horrible realization - he had been relentlessly tracked by a band of orcs following hard on his heels like wolves after a deer. Now that their quarry had failed to lead them to the 'secret way' they had little reason to continue skulking in the shadows.

Thranduil turned from the forbidding hedge, staring out into the forest even as the quickening night set the forest into an unearthly darkness teeming with the lights of a thousand carnivorous eyes moving closer with alarming speed. The noose was pulling tight around him on all sides - but above the way was clear. Scrambling hard on the jagged rocks Thranduil hurled himself up the steep rocky face, hands scratching against the merciless granite. Crystalline shards sliced at his searching fingers and the roughness scratched at exposed skin. Thranduil was several meters above moving at a veritable crawl when the first wargs burst forth from the stunted woodland, jaws futility snapping towards his ascending form. Howling their rage until it echoed on the pinnacles above they could do little but vent their fury on one another. But the orcs had come armed and soon the sharp twang of black fletched darts striking the rock face struck terror into the young elfs heart. All his will was bent toward the high towers of stone above and the faint hope that the barren mountaintops would be a far more hospitable refuge than the cursed lowlands.

Soon the clatter of arrows fallen short drifted away below him, replaced by the ever rising shriek of alpine winds. The land grew more level and soon Thranduil could balance well enough to walk; clambering over large boulders and around outcrops of dark volcanic basalt - the remnants of Beleriands turbulent past. It took time for him to locate the cleft in the rock but the sheer walls prevented any descent to the road below. Frustrated but not defeated, Thranduil continued alongside the great rift though his path climbed higher into the freezing thin air brought on by a rapidly approaching night. The moon had reached it's apex when Thranduil's tenacity rewarded itself. The road had steadily risen and though any climb into the granite crag would be risky it would not likely be fatal if he should slip. After a long while of debate with his back to a rock, listening to howling wind as it drowned out the growling in his gut, Thranduil finally made his descent. The majority of the downward climb went smoothly. Near the bottom the darkness of the ravine and the deepening night resulted in what Thranduil was sure had to have been an impressive triumph of gravity. The resounding clatter as he hit the stone path echoed for an eerily long time from the high walls. Bruised but intact the Sindar rose to his feet and continued on his way. In the dead of night Thranduil moved silent as a wraith, even his own ears straining to catch noise of his passing. When he had gone a short way Thranduil thought he heard movement. A moment of whispered enchantments and his fears were soon confirmed. The scuffling noises of boots on stone grew disorganized with his disappearance.

Thus issuing in past the encircling mountains Thranduil crept unnoticed toward the shining citadel under cover of nightfall. Had Thranduil been possessed of the knowledge of his remarkable fortune the journey may have been continued with far more caution; yet the elf had little idea of what perils he has thus far avoided. All rumors that he could recall implied that contact with the citizens of Gondolin would be most unwise. Thranduil for his part had no desire to never be heard of again, for still in his heart lingered the desire to walk again beneath Nan Elmoths eaves.

Through cunning beyond his own Thranduil had passed three gates into Gondolin - but at the Gate of Writhen Iron loud cries went up and a numerous host clad in shining steel armor encircled him.

Lanterns bright as day blinded eyes used to the darkness and Thranduil staggered, throwing one hand up to cover his eyes, the other in front with his weapon. From the light came backlit shadows in glinting armor; fierce helms casting their sharp shadows all around him. Thranduil thought first of parlay yet before even a word escaped him he was thrown down and bound and a dark cloth pulled over his eyes and in such a disgraceful state was he dragged through winding paths toward an unknown destination. The tramp of many feet around him assured him of escapes impossibility and he could only steel himself for what may come.

Into a building they came, their racket echoing in a loudening din filled with the spiced fragrance of wooden torches. The air became close and warm but as he was roughly muscled down a flight of stairs rapidly cooling. All at once he heard the clang of heavy iron and even as he pulled back Thranduil was forced into an open void so quickly he nearly stumbled over his own feet. Fingers were at the back of his head and soon the blind fell away to reveal an unremarkable cell of smooth and orderly stone, clean and warm and lit simply by a single modest candle and furnished only with a bed. A resounding clang reverberated from the stone walls and Thranduil turned to regard his captors. The elves of his guard gazed back from beneath fine silver helms with grim faces, yet at their center was a tall elf gleaming like a night full of stars. This elf spoke to Thranduil, saying:

“Vagabond in black, rest here for the night. Come the breaking of dawn you will face the King of Gondolin - for entry into our fair city demands both explanation as well as judgment. Think well in these hours on the gravity of your situation, for whatever fate our king deems for you is inescapable.”

With this the elf strode away, bright soldiers trailing behind. With a clanging loud as funeral bells echoing in his mind Thranduil was left to face the long night alone.

 

 


	8. Gondolin in Chains

At suns rising Thranduil was taken from the cold cell. Warded by several elves in shining armor he made no threatening move. The former captain of Diors guard knew himself to be a mere order from death. The guards who were to accompany him were many, but as they reached the top of the dungeon stair one stepped before him who was radiant to behold. An elf in silver armor glinting with diamond dust, crowned with long raven hair through which glared eyes the color of the evening sky. The same elf who had given Thranduil his dire warning the night before.

“Have you made your peace?” He asked.

“I am your captive.” Thranduil affirmed, already feeling what slight hope slipping from his grasp.

“So what now is to be done to me? What are your laws regarding this - for I only know that none who seek out the city return alive.”

The captain looked upon him.

“You are to be taken before the King. That is a pity for you, stranger, garbed as you are I do not think your reception will be warm.”

“I am a trespasser in your eyes.” Thranduil responded, bitter at his capture and at the ending of his journey. “My reception would have been cool regardless.”

So it was that the bound elf was led to the Kings Hall. Of the city he saw nothing, a blind had been placed over his eyes before he was escorted from the thickly walled prison. Indeed he hardly even heard so much as a birds chirp during the entire trip. Yet once the blind had been removed he stood in awestruck wonder and for a brief moment even forgot his fears.

Thranduil's eyes beheld the beauty of that legendary hall, high pillars of white marble wrought over with silver and gold in many twining designs. Twelve cascading tapestries of twelve houses embroidered with silk thread hung from high vaulted ceilings. Many-hued light shone in through colored glass, cascading with rainbow hues drawn from the early light of the breaking dawn through a long row of tall thin windows - each fashioned into an image from the cities long history. Below his feet the floor was inlaid with gleaming ribbons of pure mithril and the marble they adorned glinted like polished crystal in milky white shades. A rotunda of alabaster and marble wrought with silver and gold; all polished and shining in radiant light.

At the far end of the majestic hall upon a regal white marble throne sat a most imposing elf with long locks the color of twilight. Many layers of fine white silk were bound at his waist with a golden belt. Above his brow rested a coronet of finely wrought gold and garnets that glinted sharply in the morning sun.

“Ecthelion come forth,” The king called. “News has reached me of a prisoner from outside our walls.”

Ecthelion replied. “Yes, my King. We found him last night at the foot of the fourth gate - it seems he could find no way to breach it before he was caught. A strange elf and I have left it to him to tell his tale directly to you.”

Beside the King in a crescent shape were twelve seats, each taken by a lord of Gondolins twelve houses. Thranduil was led by silent guards into the open space in their midst and held there by two while the rest withdrew. Ecthelion took his own seat beneath a banner bearing a glistening fountain though his cold eyes never left his captive. Thranduil held his silence as the assembled host awaited the Kings first words. And it was only after long thought that their liege spoke.

“Wayfarer. You have been brought here for judgment. I do not assume however that you know what you are being judged for, nor who is here presiding - for we do not easily allow news of our ways beyond our borders. I am named Turkáno; in the language here Turgon. The city you have entered is named Gondolin, and I am it's King. The twelve you see around you are the lords of my realm who are faithful to me, with them only will I take counsel today. Is there anything that I have said that is unclear to you?”

Thranduil understood, yet a thought bothered him. “You have named yourself Turgon - yet another name you spoke before which was foreign to me and I do not know it's meaning.”

Turgon nodded from his high seat. “The name given to me at my birth by my father Fingolfin is Turkáno in the tongue of my forebearers.”

At this Thranduil's mood darkened; “The tongue of your fathers I have not heard for more than a century for it was forbidden in the land of my birth - for it is the speech of the Ñoldor, for whom my King, Elwë-Thingol had little love.”

“Thingol?” Turgon noted, a slightest tilt of his head indicating his surprise. “Then you are from Doriath then? It pains me to hear that the Ñoldor hold no dear place in your heart - for among my titles is another: I am the High King of the Ñoldor here in the Middle Earth.”

For Thranduil all the pain of the long years returned with their wrath and though he tried to control himself the venom in his words was clear.

“Your pain is a pittance compared to mine, o King! Knowing I am in the company of kin to slayers of my people. You speak of Doriath- yet do you know how it fell? It fell to Ñoldor blades - at the behest of the seven sons of Fëanor - another High King of the Ñoldor! In that assault I lost my King, his wife and children were slain and all my kin are now dead and my dear companions lost. I am the only one I know that remains - which is why I have come to your realm to search out any who may yet live. Now I know that none would abide here in the shadow of a Ñoldorin King. ”

On his throne the King sat in a brooding silence that lingered thick in the air, dimming the light of his countenance as considered his words - his lords growing restless as they cast wondering eyes at each other.

“You say that my pain is a _pittance_ compared to yours,” Turgon spoke at last. “Yet how I have suffered at the hands of the same elves who torment you. I have crossed the frozen north; compelled by the Doom lain upon all Ñoldor who first followed Fëanor in pursuit of the Silmarils. Yet little was the love of Fëanor for Fingolfin my father. Fëanor abandoned us to frozen wastes when he burned the ships of your Telerin kin that were to bear us across the wide seas. Many who fought for those vessels died in that crossing, among them my wife though my daughter yet lives. It is said that some of the Ñoldor who crossed went into Thingols realm before his death and took residence in Menegroth. I know of one, the daughter of Finarfin, my cousin Artanis.”

Thranduil looked up in surprise and wonder. His body shook as hope rekindled itself. “Artanis? You are close kin of such a fair maiden? Yes...I knew her in Menegroth in the days of my youth and there was her friend. I have missed her dearly since Doriaths fall and I know not where she or her husband Celeborn have gone. I only hope their fortunes have been happier than mine.”

“They most assuredly are.” Turgon spoke. “Yet to care for a Ñoldorin? Is that not a stretch for you?”

Thranduil lowered his face. “I am sorry for my rash words, they were spoken out of sorrow.”

Turgon smiled for a brief moment at him. “Yes. Artanis is my cousin, and she has returned safely with her beloved to my keeping here. Whatever fate I may judge for you at least keep that as comfort. Now I have declared myself, so to shall my council declare themselves.”

And at this the first elf to Thranduil left arose. Behind him was a banner of red, upon which was a black hammer. And the elf was tall and strong with hair the color of deep copper.

“I am Rog, of the House of the Hammer of Wrath - blacksmiths to the King.”

And he sat and the next elf arose. Behind him was a banner of sable upon which was a silver harp. And the elf was short in stature with quick eyes and a sly smile.

“I am Salgant, of the House of the Harp - maker of beautiful songs for our King.”

As Salgant sat he glowered smugly upon the bound elf before them. Yet captain next to him was solemn and in his eyes was empathy. Behind this elf was a banner of swirling water wrought in silver and diamonds on blue.

“You know my face, my name is Ecthelion of the House of the Fountain - guard of the fountains and the seventh gate of Gondolin.”

As he sat the elf next to him arose, and spared a smile at Ecthelion who returned it. This elf had hair the color of spun gold and the banner behind him was a green field bearing one golden flower.

“I am Glorfindel, of the House of the Golden Flower. Administrator of resources for Gondolin.”

As he sat Salgant gave a snort, yet Ecthelion halted any word the Lord of the Harp may have spoken with a glare as sharp as diamond.

The next rose and the banner behind him was a field of darkest green with a light tree in emerald upon it. He was lean but strong and clad in green. His hair was rich brown.

“I am Galdor, of the House of the Tree. Warden of all the green lands around Gondolin.”

And the next rose under two banners held equal: one with a field of white upon which was a pale blue snowflake and a banner of palest blue upon which was a tower of white. This elf was tall and strong, yet possessed of a cool grace.

“I am Penlod, Lord of both the House of the Tower, and the House of the Snow - mine is the keeping the wealth of Gondolin both in lore and in jewels.”

When he had seated himself the next arose, and he was an elf of rather normal stature clad in robes with many colors. His hair was dark unflattering brown, yet his opalescent eyes shifted colors with the light and danced from one hue to another. Behind him was a banner set with a glory of colors circled around an arrow in flight.

“I am Egalmoth, Lord of the House of the Heavenly Arch, and leader of the greater host of archers in Gondolin.”

And at his seating the next elf arose under a banner of gold upon which was a fan of purple feathers. This elf was fair and thin with sharp eyes.

“I am Duilin, Lord of the House of the Swallow, the best of the archers of Gondolin.”

And a look passed between Duilin and Egalmoth, yet nothing came of it.

Next arose an elf under a banner sable, un-blazoned. Thranduil felt a crawl of apprehension at such an un-auspicious mark - one that was the same as the orc hordes he had so often battled, the one they bore on behalf of their Dark Lord. The elf was clad in sable as dark as his hair, yet his eyes were piercing and glinted with a sharp light.

“I am Lómion, Lord of the House of the Mole, miner and forger of the riches of Gondolin.”

As the elf moved to take his seat the prisoner moved quickly - much to the astonishment of all present and it was only by Ecthelion's speed that Thranduil was stayed.

“Maeglin?!” Thranduil called out. “Maeglin of Nan Elmoth?”

At these words Lómion froze like a deer caught unawares. “Yes? And you?”

Thranduil struggled against Ecthelion's grip. “Maeglin! It is me - Thranduil! Or have you forgotten my face as well as my voice?”

“You know of the Lord of the House of the Mole?” Turgon questioned, “How?”

Thranduil replied, “I knew him in Nan Elmoth! I was the one who brought his mother herbs from the forest and news from Menegroth! And when he was old enough I was the one who taught him the art of the sword and bow! It was I who warded Nan Elmoth when his father went away on long journeys to the dwarves! Have you forgotten all of this Maeglin?”

Maeglin was silent, but Turgon turned to him and spoke; “Do you know the elf before us? Who has been brought here for judgment? Is he friend to you?”

Through the expectant silence the young elf-lord averted his eyes, only fleetingly meeting Thranduils glare.

“I must know the answer to this Lómion.” Turgon breathed softly. “Many times have you remained silent in council but I will not allow it this day. Speak what you know.”

The dark-clad elf gave a bitter smile and Thranduils joy withered.

“Yes. I know Thranduil. He was a dear friend of my father.”

Thranduil was thrown down upon his face in the kings hall with a swords tip at his neck. The hall roared with countless angry voices crying out at once that echoed harshly from the vaulted ceiling. Turgon raised his hand and silence fell. Laying pushed against cold stone, heart quivering in his chest Thranduil tried to calm himself as order returned. From his throne Turgon came with heavy silken robes rustling with such a quick approach.

“Lift him so that I may see his face, but do not allow him to stand for my judgment may be swift.” Dutifully Thranduil was raised on his knees and held with Echthelions sword to his throat lest he try to move again. The King of the Noldor looked no longer upon him with pity but with terrifying wrath.

“Woe unto you unfortunate wretch that you claim allegiance with so dark an elf! Do you know what has become of your accomplice at least?”

Thranduil gasped from around the curve of the sword, “No! For these last hundred years I have searched for news of him but none has come. I thought...I thought that he and his kin were dead. Has he made it here?”

“He has indeed.” Turgon admitted, his voice strained and venomous. “Though it should grieve you to know he is no more in the world of the living, not since he was thrown from the cities walls - as punishment for the killing of his wife in this very hall that you have entered into.”

To this Thranduil was silent, eyes wide yet unseeing as the grief of this loss weighed upon him. “I can say only this, that must be a lie.”

The sword at his throat began to cut the skin as Ecthelions hiss echoed at his ear.

“You call our King a _liar_? That alone is worth death! Not the least coming from friend of one who murdered the Kings sister!”

“The Kings sister?” Thranduil gasped, pulling back from the blade in earnest. “I knew not Aredhels lineage, only that she was much beloved of Eöl and that of his own free will he would never harm her!”

“Her harm came out of love for her son.” A voice responded from the last high seat. There, a strange elf with the web of mortality wound about him spoke. Unannounced, this stranger moved forward until Thranduil could see him, a mortal man he seemed by the cut of his raiment and the carriage of his body - one with golden hair and heavenly blue eyes.

“His mother leapt before the poisoned dart that was cast by Eöl at their son. And so poisoned she died. All this occurred long ago.”

“Why would Eöl try to kill his son?” Thranduil asked. “What reason could a father have for such an act?”

Turgon answered, his voice cold as stone. “Lómion did not wish to return to Nan Elmoth, and though I extended welcome to Eöl he did not take it. So he threw a poisoned dart at Lómion and Aredhel my sister caught it with her own flesh and as a result died. For this the dark elf Eöl was thrown from the wall of Gondolin to his death.”

Thranduil was silent a time, yet his anger came swiftly thereafter.

“Why did Maeglin not dodge, for is he not an elf like any other?” To Maeglin watching in silence he spoke; “How is it that your mother had time to move yet you did not?”

The elf held his tongue. Yet as the master-smith shifted Thranduil caught a glint at his side and knew the blades name which was belted there.

“So he refused to leave Gondolin with his father. Yet you say the issue was moot - as none leave Gondolin but by leave of the King. Nay, I know now what wrath brought Eöl to Gondolin. For he loved his wife - yet not so much he would pursue her if she truly chose to leave. And I will confess there was no great love for his son and he would not miss him. Yet, at Maeglins side there is now a sword - that Eöl would go to the ends of the earth to retrieve.”

Thranduil faced Turgon. “Look upon Maeglin - at his side lies the reason for your misery! The sword there is none other than Anguirel, mate of Anglachel which Eöl gave to King Thingol more than 200 years ago as payment for his freedom in Nan Elmoth! The twin of the sword that slew Glaurung and is now named Gurthang and lies shattered beneath the mound of Túrin Turambar!”

At this the host of lords murmured among themselves and Thranduil continued.

“One sword he gave up for his freedom, to be free of kings and bondage in Nan Elmoth. one he kept for himself. Yet you took by your decree both from him, o King. His sword and his freedom. And ultimately his life, though the grief of losing his dearest would have killed him in time without your aid!”

“Do not speak to me of his love for my sister, _vagabond_!” Turgon snapped fiercely. “What proof of this love do you have?”

“In the satchel I have brought there is a gift which was meant for the white lady and was never given. I have brought it to give now, though it be too late.”

At King Turgons command from the satchel Rog fetched the fine necklace and brought it before him. And as the Noldo turned the creation over in his hands he saw wrought therein all the things Aredhel had loved - nights in the forest, the flight of deer in the hunt, the cool of autumn, the twinkling of stars. Wrought with moonstone and diamond and sapphire and set in a deep black metal the color of her hair.

At length Turgon spoke: “Where did this come from?”

“Eöl's forge, the last work of his hands. For he knew Aredhels heart was restless and sought to comfort her any way he could - for her son Maeglin urged her often to leave Nan Elmoth, even without his father.”

“So it was by Maeglins' council that Aredhel returned?” Turgon mused, eyes turning to the Lord of the House of the Mole who stood near the throne. Maeglin spoke; “We wished to come to Gondolin to escape the dark woods.”

“And of the sword, is this true that it was stolen from Eöl and as such is the main reason for his pursuit?”

“I know not if it was his reason for the pursuit, who could know his thoughts?”

At this Thranduil moved again, though not far for he was held fast by Ecthelion.

“How idly you stand for others - yet how industrious you work for yourself! I should have expected this from you, betrayer unto death! You stood idly while your mother died for you, you stood idly while your father was killed and now you stand idly while I await judgment! You were not moved to spare them so I must judge that you would be no more moved to spare an old friend!”

To King Turgon Thranduil spoke: “I would not have conceived that a King so mighty would give an ear to the whisper of a fell serpent!”

“He is a Lord of Gondolin and it would be wise to give him appropriate respect! He is Lord of a mighty house whose great works defend the hall you have entered vagabond in black! And furthermore _he is my kin_ \- tell me why your council is preferable to his?”

Thranduil grew silent, for now King Turgon would have his say. He circled the bound elf, eyes filled with cold wrath.

“I, vagabond, have a decision to make. For the matter of your fate now concerns me. Do you know the laws of Gondolin? One; that none may enter the city unbidden. Where were you found?”

At Ecthelion's urging Thranduil answered. “By the fourth gate.”

“Then you have entered my realm unbidden, this punishment is at _my_ discretion. Gondolin is hidden for a reason. Do you not know the few leagues between our gates and the black one? Secrecy is our shield. Why have you come?”

“To seek my father. He is known as Oropher - chief of both Thingol and Dior's royal guard before Doriath fell.”

This induced much murmuring. When it faded Ecthelion spoke: “This name I know. He is a rider in our march wardens. Loyal and steadfast, honorable and strong. A Sindarin elf with pale gray hair who came from Doriath some years ago. My King, if this elf speaks the truth let it be told by Oropher.”

“Call him then. But speak nothing to him of what has happened here, only tell him to come to the High hall. As for the prisoner do not let him speak a word first.”

Turgon watched as Thranduil was pulled to his feet. Rog warded him while Ecthelion left to fetch Oropher. As the captain exited the tall doors Turgon stepped before Thranduil and looked upon him. “Your fate, vagabond is on a knifes edge. If Oropher fails to claim you, you will suffer the same fate as your mentor.”

Thranduil shuddered, and kept his silence.

It was not long before Ecthelion returned. In that time Thranduils bonds had been released, so that Oropher may suspect nothing when he entered. Yet Rog stood at the ready for the slightest word from his King, for like all of the Lords - save Maeglin who remained silent - they did not believe his story, nor that any good was in his heart.

Oropher stepped into the chamber clad in the dark livery of the marchwardens, his sword left behind at the door though his riding gear he still wore and in the moment he laid eyes upon Thranduil his mouth was agape. Heedless of Lords or King he ran forward and drew his long lost son into a tight embrace and his eyes watered with joy.

“Thranduil - my son! I thought you were dead!”

“Father! I thought you were as well!”

And the two stood for a long time, their tears drying upon each others shoulders. At length Oropher broke to hold his sons face in his hands.

“They...those who saw..they told me you died on the bridge. They said they saw-” And for a moment he could not speak, but then resumed; “Survivors said they saw Maedhros stab you on the bridge and that you collapsed it so that he may not pass. They told me you had died.”

Thranduil nodded. “It is true that I was gravely wounded, yet how I survived I do not know. I woke on the banks of the Esgalduin and from there journeyed to Eöl's home.”

Oropher grew tense and noted the lords around them. “My King. Why is he here before the lords of Gondolin?”

“To stand in judgment for entering the city unbidden.” Turgon spoke, standing tall and grave. “-and to explain his relationship to Eöl.”

At this Oropher paled and knelt before the king. “Forgive me my King! Do not take away my son from me - for I will go where he goes and I will not suffer to lose him again! It is true he knew Eöl from his youth, and from him learned to forge. Yet he was also under Beleg as a march-warden of Doriath, and under my tutelage as part of the Kings guard. He alone stood with King Dior when he was assailed by the sons of Fëanor and he has fought them himself for the defense of your cousin whom we knew as Artanis - the lady Galadriel. So my lord either spare him or release him; but I beg you do not kill him!”

For a long while Turgon stood in silence. Then he knelt and lifted Oropher to his feet, holding his shoulders as he spoke,

“You are true to your son as he is to you. For he only risked this peril for the sake of finding you. Be at peace Oropher, I will not have him slain as the law demands out of consideration for your loyal service and the hope that the son is like his father. Yet, I cannot also have him leave and betray the city.”

To Thranduil Turgon turned, eyes no longer filled with unspeakable anger. “It seems your story rings true, young elf. Your father has spoken for you. Will you stay peaceably in the city and abide by our rules for the rest of your days?”

Thranduil nodded, gray eyes shining in gratitude. “Yes, for my father is with me - no more could I ask for.”

“So be it.” Turgon spoke, and as the lords began to move he motioned to Maeglin. “Lord of the House of the Mole. A word with you I ask...come here.”

Maeglin descended from his chair, hands tight at his sides. Thranduils glare caught him and was returned, yet he all but simpered when Turgon spoke to him.

“You are my nephew and I hold you dear. You have been loyal and brave in battle at my side and have defended Gondolin always. Yet; what Thranduil has said rings true. Though I have no love for the rightful owner, I cannot allow a Lord of Gondolin to remain a thief. The sword you will turn over to Thranduil for I would rather for both our names to not be tarnished by this blade - and I will not renegotiate it. This decision is final.”

The last was said as Maeglin opened his mouth to speak. Instead he closed it in anger and removed the sword from his belt. He thought for a moment to draw it upon this bearer of woe who had come stalking in from Nan Elmoth yet he restrained himself. Ecthelion transferred the weapon to its new owner and Thranduil took up the black sword. Though none could hear it, as the cool scabbard touched his palms a dark and fell voice echoed in his mind.

_Friend of my Father, Kind toward my creator, call me and I shall come at need - for ever I long for battle._

And though Maeglin was bitter at the loss he was not altogether displeased. For a new sword of his own making was at his side soon after - a blade that did not mock him every time it was drawn.

 

 


End file.
